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GUILDEROY. 


A NOVEL. 


Bv  “ OUIDA.” 

Auther  of  “ Under  Two  Flags”  liSyrlin “Kujjino”  etCi 


New  York  : 

THE  F.  M.  LUPTON  PUBLISHING  COMPANYs 
Nos.  72-76  Walker  Street. 


r 


GUILDEROT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Lord  Guilderot  had  written  a few  pages  of  an  essay  on 
the  privileges  and  the  duties  of  friendship. 

“ Friendship  is  generally  cruelly  abused  by  those  who 
profess  it,”  he  had  written  with  much  truth.  “ It  is  too 
often  supposed,  like  love,  to  carry  with  it  an  official  right  to 
that  kind  of  candor  which  is  always  insolence.  There  can 
be  no  greater  mistake.  The  more  intimate  our  relations  are 
with  any  one,  be  it  in  friendship  or  in  love,  the  less  should 
we  strain  the  opportunity  to  say  impertinent  and  disagree- 
able things.  Intimacy  does  not  absolve  from  courtesy, 
though  it  is  so  often  separated  from  it  by  the  unwisdom  and 
the  impetuosity  of  human  nature.  Indeed,  there  is  even 
a kind  of  meanness  in  taking  advantage  of  our  entry  into 
V the  inner  temple  of  the  soul  to  leave  good  manners  outside 
on  the  threshold.  Abuse  of  all  privilege  is  vulgar,  and 
the  privileges  of  friendship,  as  they  are  without  prescription 
and  left  solely  to  our  own  judgment,  demand  an  infinite 
delicacy  and  forbearance  in  their  exercise.  There  are  many 
moments  in  friendship,  as  in  love,  when  silence  is  beyond 
words.  The  faults  of  our  friends  may  be  clear  to  us,  but  it 
is  well  to  seem  to  shut  our  eyes  to  them.  It  is  doubtful  if 
> fault-finding  ever  did  any  good  yet,  or  served  to  eradicate  any 
- fault  against  which  it  is  directed.  Friendship  is  usually 
treated  by  the  majority  of  mankind  as  a tough  and  everlast- 
r ing  thing  which  will  survive  all  manner  of  bad  treatment. 
a But  this  is  an  exceedingly  great  and  foolish  error.  Friend- 
ship may  be  killed,  like  love,  by  bad  treatment ; it  may  even 
c*C  die  in  an  hour  of  a single  unwise  word ; its  conditions  of 
existence  are  that  it  should  be  dealt  with  delicately  and  ten- 
derly, being  as  it  is  a sensitive  plant  and  not  a roadside 
thistle.  We  must  not  expect  our  friend  to  be  above 

\ i 83 1 ! 6 


4 


GUIZDEBOY. 


humanity.  We  need  not  love  his  defects,  hut  we  should  for- 
bear to  dwell  on  them  even  in  our  own  meditations.  We 
should  not  demand  from  him  what  it  is  impossible  he  should 
give.  A character  can  only  bestow  that  which  it  possesses. 
Time  and  absence  are  the  enemies  of  friendship,  as  of  love  ; 
but  they  need  not  necessarily  destroy  it,  as  they  must  destroy 
love.  For  love  is  so  intimately  interwoven  with  physical 
joys,  that  without  these  it  cannot  exist  eternally ; but  friend- 
ship, being  an  immaterial  and  intellectual  affection,  ought  to 
be  able  to  endure  without  personal  contact,  and  to  outlast 
even  the  total  separation  of  two  lives ” 

Having  written  thus  he  rose,  and  paced  to  and  fro  his 
library. 

“ That  is  not  in  the  least  true,”  he  reflected.  “ It  ought 
to  be,  but  it  is  not.  Between  the  oest  friends  long  absence 
raises  a mist  like  that  which  the  Brahmin  magician  calls  up 
to  conceal  himself.  Behind  the  mist  the  features  that  we 
once  knew  so  well  grow  vague  and  unfamiliar.  Frequent 
contact  is  necessary  to  sustain  all  sympathy.  It  is  no  fault 
of  ours  ; it  is  due  to  our  imperfect  memories,  and  the  change 
which  comes  over  our  minds  as  well  as  our  bodies  with  years.” 

He  did  not  go  back  to  his  writing-table.  The  glass  doors 
of  Ms  library  stood  open,  and  he  walked  straight  through 
them.  The  gardens  stretched  before  them,  half  in  sunshine, 
half  in  shadow — broad  lawns,  clumps  of  rare  evergreens, 
stately  trees,  beds  of  flowers  which  had  something  of  an  old- 
fashioned  carelessness  and  naturalness  in  their  arrangement. 
The  distance  was  closed  in  by  high,  close-clipped  box  hedges, 
relics  of  the  days  of  Queen  Anne.  He  strolled  out  into  the 
warm  moist  air  along  the  terrace  of  roses  which  stretched  be- 
fore this  wing  of  the  house.  The  roses  were  all  tea  roses, 
and  the  terrace  was  roofed  and  enclosed  with  them ; a few 
broad  stone  steps  led  from  it  into  the  garden  below ; at  either 
end  of  it  was  a great  cedar.  It  was  a dreamy,  pleasant, 
poetic  place.  The  house  had  more  stately  fagades  than  this ; 
some  of  it  was  regal  and  very  imposing  in  its  dimensions  and 
its  decorations,  but  this  side  of  it  was  simple,  old-fashioned 
and  charming  in  its  simplicity.  It  was  the  part  of  the 
house  which  he  always  used  by  preference  himself. 

Ladysrood  had  been  so  called  in  vejy  distant  days  of  early 
British  Christianity  from  some  miracle  of  which  the  memo- 
ries were  lost  under  the  mist  of  many  centuries,  ft  had  been 
the  site  of  a monastery  in  the  days  of  Augustine  and  of 


GXJILDEUOY. 


s 


Bede,  and  then  the  stronghold  of  the  race  of  which  its  present 
lord  was  the  sole  male  representative.  The  house,  as  it  now 
stood,  had  been  built  in  Tudor  days,  and  had  had  additions  made 
to  it  under  architects  of  the  Renaissance.  The  Tudor  section 
of  it  was  that  which  Guilderoy  loved  and  made  especially  his 
own ; the  Renaissance  part  of  it  was  left  for  purposes  of 
stately  hospitality  and  ceremonial  entertainment ; it  was  also 
in  its  way  beautiful,  but  he  disliked  it.  He  had  lived  much 
in  Italy,  and  in  these  great  rooms  with  their  frescoed  ceil- 
ings, their  sculptured  cornices,  their  marble  columns,  their 
seemingly  endless  coup  d’oeil,  he  missed  the  Italian  sun ; 
they  made  him  shiver  in  the  gray,  damp,  gusty  English 
weather.  Every  one  else,  however,  admired  them  immensely, 
and  they  helped  to  make  Ladysrood  a very  noble  house, 
though  to  its  master  it  seemed  a dull  one.  The  gardens 
were  charming,  the  park  was  large  and  undulating,  the  tim- 
ber was  superb,  and  beyond  the  park  was  wide,  heathery, 
breezy  moorland,  which  stretched  westward  to  the  western 
coast. 

He  walked  along  the  terrace  without  any  especial  aim  or 
object  in  doing  so.  The  day  was  late  in  September,  but  the 
air  was  still  warm.  The  dahlias  and  china-asters  were  glow- 
ing in  their  beds,  and  the  salvias,  blue  and  red,  made  strong 
bands  of  color  where  the  sun’s  rays  caught  them.  There  was 
a fresh  homely  scent  of  damp  grass  from  the  fallen  leaves, 
and  now  and  then  a scent  from  the  sea,  which  was  but  a few 
miles  off  beyond  the  woods  of  the  home  park. 

“ It  is  a dear  place,”  he  thought.  He  always  thought  so 
when  he  freshly  returned  to  it ; when  he  had  been  in  it  a few 
weeks  it  grew  tiresome,  dull,  provincial — yet  he  loved  it  al- 
ways. At  times  it  wore  a mute  reproach  to  him  for  leaving 
it  so  often  alone  there  in  its  stateliness  and  silence,  abandoned 
to  the  old  servants  who  had  known  it  in  his  grandfather’s 
time,  and  to  whom  every  nook  and  corner  of  it,  every  cup  and 
seucer  on  the  shelves,  every  lozenge  in  the  casements,  were 
sacred.  They  opened  it  all,  dusted  it  all,  and  every  day  let 
the  light  stream  through  the  numerous  rooms,  and  galleries, 
and  staircases,  and  corridors,  and  watched  with  vigilance  the 
sightseers  who  came  on  the  public  day  to  stare  open-mouthed 
at  its  splendors.  Ho  house  in  England  was  better  cared  for 
in  its  master’s  absence  than  this  was,  and  yet  it  occasionally 
seemed  to  him  to  ask  reproachfully,  “ Why  leave  me  so  long 
alone?” 


Kt7lLt>Elld¥'. 


“ How  is  it,”  he  thought ; “ how  is  it  that  we  have  lost  the 
art  of  living  in  these  dear  old  houses?  Better  men  than  we 
did  it  and  were  not  bored  by  it — did  not  even  know  what 
being  bored  meant.  They  were  cut  off  from  the  world  by 
the  impassable  roads  that  were  round  them.  It  took  weeks 
to  get  to  London,  and  was  a portentous  journey  even  to  the 
nearest  country  town  ; and  yet  they  were  contented.  And 
they  were  not  only  contented — they  were  often  cultured 
scholars,  true  philosophers,  fine  soldiers  when  they  had  to 
draw  the  sword.  They  had  the  art  of  sufficing  to  them- 
selves, and  we  have  lost  it.  We  are  all  of  us  dependent  on 
excitement  from  without.  All  that  our  superior  studies  and 
our  varied  experiences  and  our  endless  travels  have  done  for 
us  is  to  render  us  entirely  unable  to  support  half  an  hour’s 
solitude.” 

“ Is  it  not  so,  Hilda  ? ” he  said  aloud,  as  a lady  approached 
him. 

“ As  I have  not  the  honor  of  knowing  what  you  are  think- 
ing of,  how  can  I say  whether  I agree  with  it  or  not  ? ” 
replied  his  sister. 

“It  is  too  much  trouble  to  put  it  all  into  words.  If  you 
were  a sympathetic  woman  you  would  guess  it  without  ex- 
planation.” 

“ I am  too  matter  of  fact  to  be  sympathetic ; you  have  told 
me  so  often.  All  the  common  sense  of  the  race  has  concen- 
trated itself  in  me.” 

“A  woman  with  common  sense  is  dreadful,”  he  replied  some- 
what peevishly.  “ It  is  an  unpleasant  quality,  even  in  a 
man.  One’s  steward  always  has  it,  and  one’s  banker,  and 
one’s  solicitor  ; but  they  are  none  of  them  people  whom  one 
sees  with  unalloyed  delight.” 

“ They  are  very  useful  people,”  said  the  lady.  “ Without 
them  I do  not  know  where  you  would  be.” 

“Living  in  a garret  in  Paris,  or  in  a mezzanina  in  Venice, 
with  some  Jew  or  some  manufacturer  here  in  my  place,  no 
doubt.  I am  not  ungrateful,”  he  replied.  “I  was,  indeed, 
wishing  that  I could  live  here  all  the  year  round,  as  our 
great-great-grandfather  did  in  George  the  Second’s  days, 
going  out  in  state  with  twelve  horses  and  outriders  when  he 
did  go  out,  which  was  once  in  ten  years ” 

“ You  ceuld  drive  twelve-  horses  if  it  amused  you  ; but  I 
think  it  would  have*  rather  a circus-look,  a soupgon  of 
Hengler.  And  where  would  be  the  devoted  rustics,  who 


GUILDEZOY : 


7 


were  ready  to  drag  our  great-great-grandfather’s  wheels  out 
of  the  mud  ? ” 

“ Britons  still  love  lords/’  replied  Guilderoy,  “and  will  do 
so  even  when  Mr.  Chamberlain,  as  President  of  the  Republic* 
shall  have  decreed  that  all  titles  must  be  abolished.  The 
rustic  may  have  ceased  to  be  devoted,  but  he  still  likes  a 
gentleman  better  than  he  likes  a cad.  He  will  pull  one  out 
of  the  mud  sooner  than  he  will  the  other.  That  is  a senti- 
ment in  the  English  breast  which  has  been  too  much  neg- 
lected by  the  politicians.  In  Prance,  Jacques  Bonhomme 
hates  M.  le  Marquis  savagely  ; but  in  England,  Bill  and  Jack 
have  a rude  unavowed  admiration  for  my  lord  duke.  Hunt- 
ing and  cricket  have  done  that.” 

“ How  well  that  comes  from  you,  who  never  cared  about 
either  fox  or  a wicket ! ” 

“ What  have  my  own  personal  tastes  or  distastes  to  do  with 
a national  question  ? I should  no  doubt  have  been  a much 
more  popular  man  in  the  country  if  I had  liked  foxes  and 
wickets ! Hunting,  to  me,  seems  barbarous,  and  cricket 
childish  ; but  as  factors  in  the  national  life  they  have  had 
great  uses.” 

“ You  are  so  very  dispassionate  that  you  are  intensely 
irritating,”  said  his  sister.  “Most  people  adore  things  or 
hate  things  en  bloc” 

“ Happy  people  ! ” replied  Guilderoy.  “ They  are  never 
troubled  with  an}7  doubt  or  any  divided  inclinations.  It 
must  be  delightful  to  have  the  world  sorted  into  goats  and 
sheep,  into  black  and  white,  in  that  fashion.  I should  enjoy 
it.  The  world  to  me  looks  like  a billiard-table ; here  and 
there  a ball  rolls  on  it,  that  is  all ; the  table  is  perfectly 
monotonous  and  profoundly  uninteresting.” 

“ It  does  not  look  monotonous  to  those  who  play  billiards,” 
she  replied.  “ What  you  want  to  do  to  give  you  an  interest 
in  existence  is  to  occupy  yourself  with  its  games,  trivial  or 
serious.” 

“ I have  a great  many  interests  in  existence.  Of  some  of 
them  you  don’t  approve ; you  think  them  too  interesting.” 

“ Come  and  have  some  tea,”  said  his  sister ; and  she 
walked  to  the  glass  doors  of  the  library  and  entered  that 
apartment  and  rang  for  the  servant.  “Bring  tea  here,”  she 
said  to  the  footman  who  answered  her  summons ; and  in  five 
minutes  the  tea  was  brought,  served  in  Queen  Anne  silver 
and  cups  of  old  Worcester. 


8 


GUlLLEllOY . 


CHAPTER  II. 

Evelyn  Herbert,  Lord  Guilderoy,  had  been  born  to  an 
enviable  fate.  A long  minority  had  given  him  a considerable 
fortune,  and  his  name  was  as  old  as  the  days  of  Knut.  His 
old  home  of  Ladysroad  had  been  inscribed  in  the  Doomsday 
Book  and  had  never  belonged  to  any  but  his  race.  His 
mother  had  been  a Erenchwoman  of  high  rank,  and  his 
father  a man  of  brilliant  accomplishments  and  blameless 
character.  He  inherited  from  his  mother  a great 
charm  and  grace  of  manner,  and  from  his  father  a love 
of  learning  and  a facile  and  brilliant  intelligence.  Person- 
ally he  was  handsome  and  patrician-looking — tall,  fair,  and 
perfectly  graceful ; and  his  admirable  constitution  preserved 
him  safely  through  the  many  follies  with  which  he  risked 
the  injury  of  his  health.  Destiny  had  been  kind — even 
lavish — to  him,  and  if,  with  all  its  favors,  he  was  not  a happy 
man,  it  was,  as  his  sister  told  him,  most  clearly  nobody’s 
fault  but  his  own.  He  could  not  perhaps  have  said  himself 
whether  he  were  happy  or  not.  Happiness  is  a fugitive 
thing,  and  not  apt  to  sit  long  quietly  in  an  armchair  at  the 
banquet  of  life.  It  is  a fairy,  which  is  propitiated  rather  by 
temperament  than  by  fortune. 

His  sister,  Lady  Sunbury,  was  a handsome  woman ; tall, 
stately,  and  imposing.  She  looked  young  for  the  mother  of 
sons  who  were  in  the  Guards  and  at  Oxford.  She  had  an 
expression  of  power  and  of  authority  ; her  eyes  were  clear 
and  penetrating;  her  mouth  handsome  and  cold.  There 
were  many  who  thought  it  a pity  that  she  had  not  been  born 
to  the  title  of  Guilderoy  instead  of  her  brother — her  husband 
amongst  them,  because  then  she  could  not  have  married 
him. 

“ You  are  perfectly  right;  I know  you  are  always  right ; I 
admit  you  are  ; but  it  is  just  that  which  makes  you  so 
damnably  odious ! ” said  Lord  Sunbury  once,  in  a burst  of 
rage,  in  his  town  house,  speaking  in  such  stentorian  tones 
that  the  people  passing  up  Grosvenor-street  looked  up  at  his 
open  windows,  and  a crossing-sweeper  said  to  a match-seller, 
“ My  eye  ! ain’t  he  giving  it  to  the  old  gal  like  blazes ! 97 


GUILDEROY. 


Lady  S unbury,  however,  never  divined  that  she  was  called 
an  old  girl  by  the  crossing-sweeper  under  her  windows,  and 
her  dignity  remained  unimpaired  either  by  that  fact  or  her 
husband’s  fury.  She  was  a perfectly  dignified  woman.  She 
looked  admirably  at  a state  ball ; she  received  admirably  in 
her  own  house.  She  would  have  been  admirable  in  a revolu- 
tion, in  a siege,  or  in  a civil  war  ; but  in  the  little  daily  things 
of  life  she  was  not  pliant,  and  she  was  not  what  is  comprised 
in  the  three  French  words  facile  avivre.  Now  to  be  facile 
dj  vivre  is,  as  modern  existence  is  constructed,  an  infinitely 
higher  quality  than  all  the  heroic  virtues. 

“And  yet  what  a good  woman  she  is !”  thought  Guilderoy 
often.  “ There  is  something  quite  pathetic  in  such  goodness 
being  thrown  away  on  such  sinners  as  Sunbury  and  I ! And 
to  think  that  if  she  were  only  a little  less  excellent  she  would 
have  had  such  a much  better  chance  of  succeeding  with  both 
of  us ! ” 

Yet  Guilderoy,  who  was  of  an  affectionate  nature,  was 
fond  of  her  : she  had  been  very  kind  to  him  when  he  had 
been  a little  boy  and  she  a tall  girl  in  the  schoolroom  ; he 
always  remembered  that  ; besides,  she  was  the  only  near 
relative  that  he  had  remaining  to  him,  and  he  was  always 
pleased  to  have  her  stay  at  his  house,  as  she  was  staying  now 
for  a few  days  on  her  way  to  visits  in  the  adjoining  counties, 
even  if  her  arguments  and  her  reproaches,  which  were  invar- 
iably tuned  to  the  same  key,  left  him  at  the  end  of  each  of 
her  visits  somewhat  enerve  and  disposed  to  sympathize  more 
than  he  deserved  with  that  very  uninteresting  reprobate, 
Lord  Sunbury. 

She  was  one  of  those  admirably  virtuous  women  who  are 
more  likely  to  turn  men  away  from  the  paths  of  virtue  than 
the  wickedest  of  syrens.  Her  brother  was  more  tolerant  of 
her  sermons  than  her  husband  was,  or  her  sons  were  ; he 
appreciated  the  excellence  of  her  motives  and  the  sincerity  of 
her  affections  better  than  they  did,  possibly  because  he  could 
get  away  from  both  more  easily  than  they  could.  He  pitied 
her  moreover.  An  intellectual  and  intelligent  woman,  she 
had  married  a silly  man  for  his  handsome  person — a folly 
clever  women  often  commit.  A proud  woman,  she  was  poor 
with  that  most  painful  of  all  poverty,  inadequate  means  to 
sustain  a preat  position ; and  a woman  of  strong  affections, 
she  was  doomed  to  see  her  attachment  impatiently  received, 
or  as  impatiently  shaken  off,  in  all  the  relations  of  her  life, 


&UTLDEBOY. 


to 

because  she  had  not  the  tact  to  control  her  temper  or  to  resist 
her  love  of  argument  and  domination. 

“ My  dear  Hilda,”  he  had  said  to  her  more  than  once,  “ it 
is  not  enough  to  be  attached  to  people  to  secure  their  affec- 
tions ; we  must  suit  ourselves  to  them,  we  must  study  them, 
we  must  make  ourselves  agreeable  to  them.  Mr.  Morris  has 
said  that  love  is  enough,  but  it  isn’t.  It  is  only  a bore  if  it 
is  not  accompanied  by  self-restraint,  discrimination,  and  daily 
exercise  of  tact  and  judgment.” 

But  he  might  as  well  have  spoken  to  the  Kneller  and 
Vandyke  ladies  in  his  picture-gallery.  Lady  Sunbury  ad- 
mitted that  he  was  right  in  principle,  but  in  practice  she 
still  continued  to  irritate  herself,  infuriate  her  husband,  and 
alienate  her  sons,  because  she  could  not  keep  to  herself  the 
superior  good  sense  with  which  nature  had  gifted  her. 

“ When  there  is  not  a woman  in  the  house  one  never  thinks 
of  tea,”  said  Guilderoy,  as  he  took  his  cup  from  her. 

“ You  should  have  a woman  in  the  house,”  said  Lady  Sun- 
bury curtly  and  with  emphasis. 

He  smiled,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  library,  with  his 
cup  in  his  hand, 

u What  an  uncomfortable  habit  you  have  of  walking 
about ! ” said  his  sister  irritably,  with  the  Queen  Anne  cream- 
jug  in  her  hand. 

“ You  think  all  my  habits  uncomfortable  when  you  do  not 
think  them  improper,”  he  returned  with  perfect  good 
humor. 

“ Yes,  they  are  the  habits  of  a man  who  has  lived  entirely 
for  himself  and  after  his  own  caprices.” 

“ Possibly.” 

He  did  not  care  to  defend  himself. 

Lady  Sunbury  looked  at  him  as  he  paced  to  and  fro  the 
library  floor.  She  was  passionately  attached  to  him,  and 
proud  of  him,  only  she  could  not  restrain  herself  from  worry- 
ing and  finding  fault  with  him,  after  the  manner  of  women. 
She  was  a few  years  older  than  he,  and  her  sense  of  her- 
self as  of  a female  mentor  set  over  him  by  nature  never  left 
her.  She  had  been  intensely  ambitious  for  him ; she  had 
believed,  perhaps  with  reason,  that  if  he  had  chosen  there 
was  no  position  in  the  State  which  lie  could  not  have  filled, 
and  filled  with  honor.  And  here  all  his  life  was  slipping 
away  from  him,  only  occupied  with  idle  dreams  and  passion? 


GUILDEEOY.  H 

as  idle.  She  shut  down  the  lid  of  the  Queen  Anne  teapot 
angrily. 

“ My  dear  Evelyn,  you  have  missed  your  vocation,”  she 
said,  with  much  irritation.  “ Every  man  who  does  miss  his 
vocation  is  an  unhappy  man.  He  may  he  to  the  eyes  of 
others  prosperous,  but  there  is  a worm  which  eateth  him  and 
leaves  him  no  rest.  The  worm  in  you  is  suppressed  ambi- 
tion. It  is  a malady  like  suppressed  gout.  Nature,  circum- 
stance, your  own  temperament,  and  all  the  accidents  of 
birth  joined  together,  which  they  so  very  seldom  do  for  any- 
body, to  make  it  perfectly  possible  for  you  to  have  been  a 
great  man. 

Thus  she  spoke,  and  her  voice  emphasized  imposingly  the 
two  last  words. 

Her  auditor  responded  languidly  : 

“I  have  no  ambition,  either  suppressed  or  developed,  and 
there  are  no  great  men.  When  a friend  of  mine  said  that 
there  were  no  great  men  to  Mr.  Gladstone,  he,  who  probably 
felt  the  remark  to  be  personally  slighting,  replied  that  there 
were  as  many  as  ever,  but  that  the  general  level  was  higher, 
so  that  they  did  not  look  so  remarkable.  It  is  a reply  com- 
forting to  mediocrity.  I am.  not  prepared  to  say  that  it  is  a 
true  one.” 

“ I think  it  is  true,  but  it  is  altogether  outside  my  argu- 
ment. I am  saying  that  you  might  so  easily  have  been  a 
great  man,  as  great  men  go  in  these  days;  whether  they  are 
really  as  big  or  not  as  they  used  to  be  doesn’t  matter  the 
least;  you  might  have  been  as  big  as  any  one  of  them,  and 
you  are  mistaken  if  you  think  that  you  are  not  ambitious — 
you  do  not  know  yourself.” 

u c Know  thyself  ’,  saith  the  sage.  It  is  the  most  difficult 
and  the  most  depressing  of  all  tasks,  and  not  a very  useful 
one  when  it  is  accomplished.” 

Lady  Sunbury  continued,  as  though  he  had  not  spoken,  to 
pursue  her  theme  : — 

“ It  is  only  men  in  your  position  who  can  touch  public 
life  without  any  possible  suspicion  of  their  motives.  It  was 
the  patriotism  of  the  great  peers  which  carried  England 
through  her  troubles  from  ’89  to  ’15.  It  is  only  men  wha 
have  already  everything  which  position  can  give  them  who 
can  govern  with  perfectly  clean  hands,  or  who  can  have  the 
courage  in  a great  crisis  which  is  alone  born  of  absolutely 
pure  disinterestedness.” 


12 


GUILDEROY. 


u I have  not  the  slightest  qualification  for  governing  any* 
thing,  not  even  a dog,”  replied  Guilderoy.  “ All  my  dogs  do 
what  they  like  with  me — I am  positively  afraid  of  displeas- 
ing them.” 

u There  is  hardly  anything  you  might  not  have  been,  with 
your  position  and  your  talents,”  continued  the  lady.  “ You 
are  indolent,  you  are  capricious,  and  you  are  very  crotchety ; 
but  these  are  faults  you  might  have  overcome  if  you  had 
chosen,  and  if  you  had  absorbed  yourself  in  public  life  you 
would  have  been  a very  much  happier  man  than  you  are.” 

“ Public  life  is  not  a recipe  for  happiness — it  is  worry, 
nothing  else  but  worry  from  morning  to  night,  and  nobody 
does  any  good  in  it.  They  are  flies  on  the  wheel  of  a bicycle 
of  democracy  ; the  bicycle  is  rushing  down  hill  as  fast  as  it 
can  go ; no  fly  will  stop  it.” 

“ No  : no  fly  will,  certainly  ; but  when  it  falls  over  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill,  the  man  who  will  be  there  ready  to  pick 
it  up  and  get  into  its  saddle  will  be  the  master  of  it  and  of 
the  situation.” 

u That  time  is  far  off.  It  has  only  just  started  from  the 
top  of  the  hill  in  England,  and  the  man  who  will  wait  at  the 
bottom  will  be  some  soldier  who  will  stand  no  nonsense,  and 
will  set  it  going  again  with  a bang  of  his  sword.  It  is  always 
so.  I never  see  any  use  in  fretting  and  fuming  about  it. 
Democracy,  after  having  made  everything  supremely  hideous 
and  uncomfortable  for  everybody,  always  ends  by  clinging  to 
the  coat-tails  of  some  successful  general.” 

u If  our  aristocracy  did  its  duty ” 

“ Oh,  no,  you  are  wholly  mistaken.  Those  who  envy  us 
and  hate  us  would  not  be  disarmed  by  the  spectacle  of  our 
virtues  were  they  ever  so  numerous.  I may  not  have  done 
my  duty  individually,  I do  not  pretend  to  have  done  it ; but 
I think  that  the  Order  has,  as  a collective  body,  done  theirs 
very  admirably,  and  with  exceeding  self-denial.  Take  our 
House,  for  example.  The  popular  idea  of  the  House  of 
Lords  is  that  it  is  a kind  of  hot-bed  for  all  manner  of  unjust 
privileges  and  abominable  sinecures.  The  country  does  not 
in  the  least  understand  the  quantity  of  solid  useful  work 
which  is  done  there  in  Committee,  the  way  in  which  young 
men  sacrifice  time  and  pleasure  to  do  that  work,  and  the 
honest,  pains-taking  care  for  the  national  interests  which  is 
brought  to  the  consideration  of  every  bill  that  comes  up  to 
it.  The  House  of  Lords  wants  nothing  of  the  nation,  and, 


GUaLDEROY . 


13 


therefore,  it  is  the  only  candid  and  disinterested  guardian  of 
the  people’s  needs  and  resources.  It  has  never  withstood 
the  real  desire  of  the  country,  it  has  only  stood  between  the 
country  and  its  impetuous  and  evanescent  follies.  It  has 
given  breathing  time  to  it  and  made  it  pause  before  taking  a 
headlong  leap,  but  it  has  never  opposed  what  it  saw  to  be 
the  real  and  well-considered  national  will.  It  has  done  what 
the  American  Senate  does,  but  it  has  done  it  better  than  any 
elective  Senate  can  do,  because  the  moment  any  political 
body  is  elective  it  has  at  once  a tendency  to  servility,  and  is 
more  or  less  open  to  cause,  and  be  acted  on  by  corruption. 
As  you  said  yourself  just  now  it  is  only  men  who  have 
already  a position  so  great  that  nothing  can  make  it  greater 
who  can  govern  public  life  with  no  possible  taint  of  ulterior 
or  personal  motive.  It  is  because  personal  motives  have 
crept  in  so  insidiously  into  English  politics  that  they  have 
deteriorated  in  character  so  greatly  as  they  have  done  in  our 
time.” 

“ Every  word  you  say  only  strengthens  my  opinion  that 

fmu  should  have  taken  a part,  and  a great  part,  in  national 
ife.” 

“ You  narrow  a public  question  to  a private  one — women 
always  do.  I know  myself,  which  you  admit  is  rare,  and  I 
am  wholly  unfitted  for  public  life  as  it  is  now  conducted  in 
England ; I have  views  which  would  appal  even  my  own 
party.  I think  that  we  should  have  the  courage  of  our 
opinions,  and  that  we  should  not  bid  for  popularity  by  pre- 
tending that  the  mob  is  our  equal ; we  should  have  the 
courage  to  demand  that  supremacy  should  go  to  the  fittest, 
and  we  should  refuse  to  allow  ignorance,  drunkenness,  and 
poverty  to  call  themselves  our  masters.  We  should  declare 
that  the  minority  is  always  more  likely  to  be  in  the  right 
than  the  majority,  and  that  if  generations  of  culture,  author- 
ity, and  courtesy  do  not  make  a better  product  than  genera- 
tions of  ignorance,  servility,  and  squalor,  then  let  all  “laws 
and  learning,  grace  and  manners  die,”  since  they  have 
proved  themselves  absolutely  useless.  But  we  have  not  the 
courage  of  our  opinions ; we  are  all  kneeling  in  the  mud  and 
swearing  that  the  mud  is  higher  than  the  stars.  I for  one 
will  not  kneel,  and  therefore  I tell  you  I have  no  place  in  the 
public  life  of  my  times.” 

Lady  Sunbury  was  vexed  and  irritated. 

“ I do  not  see  that  your  eulogy  of  the  House  of  Lords  is  in 


14 


GUILLEBOY. 


accord  with  your  condemnation  of  public  life.  If  you  have 
chosen ” 

“ I beg  your  pardon.  I say  the  House  of  Lords  is  more 
admirable  and  useful  than  the  people  have  the  remotest  idea 
of,  who  think  it  only  a kind  of  glass  frame  for  rearing  the 
mushrooms  of  prestige  and  privilege.  But  I think  the  House 
of  Lords  would  be  truer  to  itself  if  it  had  the  courage  to  tell 
the  people  that  it  could  govern  them,  were  it  an  absolute  oli- 
garchy, with  infinitely  more  honor  abroad  and  prosperity  at 
home  than  they  will  ever  get  out  of  the  professional  politi- 
cians and  the  salaried  agitators  whom  it  sends  up  to  West- 
minster.” 

“ If  it  did  it  would  be  swept  away.” 

“ Is  that  so  sure  ? At  all  events,  it  would  fall  with  dig- 
nity. It  is  not  dignified  to  pass  bills  which  it  knows  to  be 
poisonous  to  the  honor  and  welfare  of  the  nation,  because  it 
has  the  couteau  a la  gorge  of  its  own  threatened  extinction. 
Courage  is  the  one  absolutely  necessary  quality  to  an  aris- 
tocracy ; and  I know  not  why  our  House  should  fear  its  own 
abolition.  It  is  the  country  which  would  suffer  far  more 
than  ourselves.” 

“ Go  to  the  House  and  say  so.” 

“ The  House  is  not  sitting,”  he  replied  with  a little  laugh, 
as  he  rose  and  walked  to  one  of  the  windows.  Opposite  to 
the  window  was  a great  cedar  tree  spreading  its  dark  shade 
over  a velvet  lawn.  On  one  of  the  boughs  of  the  cedar  a 
wood-dove  was  perched  high  up  against  the  sun  ; the  light 
made  the  white  and  fawn  of  its  plumage  look  silvery  and 
gold  ; he  was  murmuring  all  sorts  of  sweet  things  to  his  lady- 
love, visible  to  him  though  not  to  his  observer ; he  was  per- 
fectly, ideally  happy.  Bound  the  tree  at  the  same  moment 
were  flying  three  sparrows,  fussing,  shrieking,  quarrelling. 
The  foremost  had  a straw  in  his  beak,  and  the  others 
wanted  it. 

“ The  professional  politicians,”  murmured  Guilderoy. 
“ The  lover  is  wiser  by  a great  deal.” 

“That  depends  on  what  sort  of  a person  the  lady  is,”  said 
his  sister,  with  some  unpleasantness  in  her  tone. 

“Hot  at  all,”  said  Guilderoy.  “She  is  to  him  what  he 
thinks  her,  at  all  events  ; who  wants  more  ? ” 

And  he  continued  to  watch  the  dove  cooing  and  fluttering 
in  the  sunshine  on  the  topmost  branch  of  the  great  cedar. 


GUILDJEROT.  15 

“ The  dove  wants  a great  deal  more  if  he  is  wise/'  said 
Lady  Sunbury. 

“ If  he  is  wise  he  is  not  half  a lover,”  replied  Guilderoy. 
“ The  sparrows  are  wise  in  your  sense  of  world’s ; and  not  in 
mine.” 

“ I wish  you  were  like  the  sparrows.” 

“ You  wish  I were  a professional  politician,  or  a salaried 
agitator  ? My  dear  Hilda,  what  taste  ! ” 

“ I wish  you  were  anything  hut  what  you  are.” 

“ One’s  relatives  invariably  do.” 

Lady  Sunbury  went  up  to  her  brother  and  put  her  hand  in 
affectionate  apology  on  his  shoulder. 

“You  know  what  I mean,  my  dear.  You  have  such  tal- 
ents, such  great  opportunities,  so  noble  a character.  I can- 
not bear  to  see  them  all  thrown  away  on  women.” 

He  laughed,  and  moved  a little  away. 

“ Every  woman  thinks  a man’s  life  c thrown  away  ’ on 
another  woman;  when  a man’s  life  is  given  to  herself 
she  thinks  it  ( consecrated  ’ to  her.  You  always  use  two 
vocabularies  for  yourself  and  your  neighbors.” 

Lady  Sunbury  turned  away,  offended  and  silent. 

Guilderoy  still  continued  to  gaze  dreamily  at  the  cedar 
with  the  birds  in  it,  which  had  furnished  him  with  his  meta- 
phor. 


CHAPTER  III. 

“He  really  ought  to  make  some  marriage,”  thought  Lady 
Sunbury,  when  she  had  left  him,  and  took  her  way  through 
the  drawing-rooms  opening  one  out  of  another  in  a succession 
of  rooms,  all  decorated  and  furnished  as  they  had  been  in 
George  the  Second’s  time,  and  with  their  ceilings  and  panels 
and  mantel-pieces  painted  by  the  Watteau  School. 

“ He  really  ought  to  marry,”  she  thought ; “ it  makes  me 
wretched  to  think  that  he  should  go  on  like  this.” 

And  yet,  what  woman  living  would  have  seemed  to  Lady 
Sunbury  to  be  the  equal  of  her  brother  ? 

She  would  have  been  sure  that  a V enus,  was  a dunce,  a 
Pallas  a blue,  a Penelope  a fool,  a Helen  a wanton,  and  an 
Antigone  a fright.  All  the  graces,  all  the  muses,  and  all  th# 


16 


GUILDEEOT. 


saints  rolled  into  one  would  have  seemed  to  her  either  ft 
dowdy  or  an  ecervelee , either  a humdrum  nobody  or  £ por- 
tentous jade,  if  such  on  one  had  been  called  Lady  Guilderoy. 
She  had  a most  ardent  and  honest  desire  to  see  her  brother 
married,  and  yet  she  felt  that  his  marriage  would  be  quite 
intolerable  to  her.  For  a person  who  prided  herself  on  her 
consistency  the  inconsistency  of  her  feelings  was  an  irritation. 

“ I should  hate  her.  I could  not  help  hating  her,”  she 
mused  as  she  walked  through  the  drawing-rooms.  “But  I 
should  always  be  just  to  her,  and  I should  be  very  fond  of 
the  children.” 

Nothing,  however,  she  knew,  could  be  further  from  her 
brother’s  intentions  than  to  give  her  either  the  woman  to  hate 
or  the  children  to  adore. 

He  had  seen  all  the  most  charming  marriageable  women  of 
Europe,  and  he  had  taken  none  of  them.  So  far  as  his  life 
was  pledged  at  all  it  was  given  to  a wcman  whom  he  could 
Vot  marry. 

Guilderoy,  left  to  himself,  glanced  at  his  neglected  essay 
lying  on  the  writing-table.  “What  is  the  use  of  saying  these 
things  ? ” he  thought.  “ Everything  has  been  said  already 
in  the  Lysis.  We  keep  repeating  it  with  variations  of  our 
own,  and  we  think  our  imitations  are  novelty  and  wisdom.” 

He  threw  the  written  sheets  between  the  pages  of  a blot- 
ting-book,  and  took  up  a letter  lying  under  them  and  read  it 
again  ; he  had  read  it  when  it  had  arrived  with  all  his  other 
correspondance  in  the  forenoon.  It  was  from  the  lady  of 
whom  his  sister  did  not  approve. 

It  was  an  impassioned  letter. 

Now,  when  a man  is  himself  in  love  such  letters  are  delight- 
ful, but  when  his  own  passion  is  waning  they  are  apt  to  be 
wearisome. 

“ How  much  of  it  is  love  ? ” he  thought.  “ And  how  much 
love  of  proprietorship,  jealousy  of  possible  opponents,  pleas- 
ure in  a flattering  ciffiche  ? God  forgive  me  ! I have  not 
the  smallest  right  to  be  exacting  in  such  matters  or  hyper- 
critical, and  yet  it  takes  so  much  more  to  satisfy  me  than  I 
have  ever  got  in  these  things.” 

He  was  conscious  of  his  ingratitude. 

After  all,  a great  many  women  had  loved  him  greatly,  and 
had  given  him  all  they  had  to  give  \ and  if  the  quality  of 
their  love  had  not  been  equal  to  some  vague  exaggerated 
impossible  ideal  which  floated  before  his  fancy,  it  had  not 


GUILDEBOY. 


17 


been  their  fault  probably ; much  more  probably  his  own. 

He  lit  a match  and  burnt  the  letter,  and  remembered  with 
a pang  the  time  when  a single  line  from  the  same  hand  had 
been  worn  next  his  heart  for  days  after  it  had  been  received. 

“ Why  do  our  feelings  only  remain  such  a very  little  time 
at  that  stage  ? ” he  mused  ; and  he  wondered  if  the  wood- 
dove  in  the  cedar  tree  knew  these  varying  and  gradual 
changes  from  ardor  to  indifference.  He  was  not  actually 
indifferent.  He  felt  that  to  become  indifferent  was  a possi- 
bility, and  when  this  is  felt,  indifference  itself  is  never  far  off 
we  may  be  sure.  “ Elle  vient  a pas  lents  / mais  elle  vient  .” 

The  letter  asked  him  to  spend  the  winter  in  Naples.  He 
usually  spent  the  winter  somewhere  in  the  south,  but  a vague 
dislike  to  the  south  rose  in  him  before  this  request. 

The  sense  that  his  presence  there  was  regarded  as  a right 
weakened  his  desire  to  go.  Like  all  high-mettled  animals, 
he  turned  restive  when  he  felt  the  pressure  of  the  curb.  With 
the  reins  floating  loose  on  his  neck  he  followed  docilely. 

“If  I do  go,”  he  thought,  “I  shall  have  all  my  days 
mapped  out  for  me  ; I shall  be  worried  if  Hook  at  another 
woman  ; I shall  be  told  fifty  times  a week  that  I am  heartless. 
Perhaps  I am  heartless,  but  I think  not ; and  even  if  one  is, 
to  be  told  so  perpetually  does  not  make  one’s  heart  softer.” 

Was  he  heartless  ? 

He  thought  not ; and  in  this  respect  he  knew  his  own 
temperament.  He  was  even  more  tender-hearted  than  most 
men ; but  he  had  been  spoiled  and  caressed  by  fortune,  and 
habitual  self-indulgence  had  made  him  apt  only  to  consider 
himself  with  an  unconsciousness  which  made  it  less  egotism 
than  habit. 

He  had  done  some  things  which  were  unselfish  and  gen- 
erous in  an  unusual  degree  ; but  they  had  been  great  things 
in  which  the  indolence  and  fastidiousness  of  his  character 
had  been  banished  by  new  and  strong  emotions.  In  ordin- 
ary matters  he  was  selfish  without  being  in  the  least  aware 
of  it,  as  indeed  happens  with  the  majority  of  people. 

When  the  letter  was  burnt  he  went  to  one  of  the  windows 
and  looked  out.  The  day  was  closing  in,  and  the  shadows 
were  taking  the  colors  from  the  autumnal  flowers  and  mak- 
ing the  woods  beyond  look  black  and  forbidding,  while  a few 
red  leaves  were  being  driven  along  the  terrace  under  a breeze 
which  had  suddenly  risen  and  blew  freshly  from  the  sea.  A 
winter  here  would  be  unendurable,  he  thought.  It  was  very 

2 


18 


GUILDEROY. 


many  years  since  he  had  seen  Ladysrood  in  the  winter 
months.  None  of  the  sports  of  winter  were  agreeable  to 
him,  and  he  did  not  care  for  house  parties,  which  required 
an  amount  of  attention  and  observance  from  a host  very 
distasteful  to  his  temperament.  He  usually  came  here  only 
when  he  wished  for  entire  solitude,  and  the  gentry  of  his 
county  sighed  in  vain  for  the  various  entertainments,  the 
balls,  the  dinners,  and  the  hunting  breakfasts,  to  which,  had 
Guilderoy  been  like  any  one  else,  the  great  house  would 
doubtless  have  been  dedicated.  But  he  saw  no  necessity  to 
so  dedicate  it.  Ladysrood  was  much  isolated,  being  sur- 
rounded on  three  sides  with  moorland,  and  on  the  other  side 
shut  in  by  the  sea,  and  though  his  distant  neighbors  would 
willingly  have  driven  twenty  miles  to  see  him,  he  gave  them 
no  invitation  or  permission  to  do  so.  The  great  fetes  which 
had  celebrated  his  majority  some  fifteen  or  sixteen  years 
before  had  been  the  last  time  in  which  the  reception-rooms 
had  been  illuminated  for  a great  party. 

He  was  an  idol  of  the  great  world,  which  always  con- 
sidered him  capricious,  but  charming ; but  his  county  saw 
only  the  caprice  and  none  of  the  charm,  and  thought  him 
rude,  eccentric,  and  misanthropical.  In  his  father’s  and 
forefathers’  time  the  hospitalities  of  Ladysrood  had  been  pro- 
fuse and  magnificent ; the  closing  of  its  doors  was  an  affront 
to  the  whole  country-side  against  the  unpopularity  of  which 
the  good  sense  of  Lady  Sunbury  had  in  vain  often  protested. 

“ I have  no  desire  to  be  popular,”  Guilderoy  invariably  re- 
plied. “ There  is  nothing  on  earth  so  vulgar  as  the  craze  for 
popularity  which  now-a-days  makes  people  who  ought  to 
know  better  only  anxious  to  be  fawned  on  by  the  crowd.” 

66  6 Vox  populi  vox  Dei,”  said  Lady  Sunbury. 

“ It  always  was  in  the  esteem  of  the  vulgar  themselves,” 
replied  her  brother.  “ Myself,  I wholly  decline  to  believe 
that  the  gods  ever  speak  through  the  throats  of  any  mob.” 
“Can  you  call  your  own  county  people  a mob  ? ” 

“ Oh,  yes.  A well-dressed  mob,  but  a mob  decidedly.  If 
you  let  them  in  by  the  great  gate  I shall  go  out  by  the  gar- 
den door.” 

And  they  never  were  let  into  Ladysrood,  infinitely  to  their 
disgust.  A few  men  dined  with  him  occasionally,  that  was 
all.  It  was  not  wonderful  that  his  neighbors  thought  Lady 
Sunbury  would  have  been  better  in  his  place. 

When  he  looked  out  on  to  the  terrace  now  and  saw  the  little 


GUILDEROY . 


L9 


red  leaves  blowing,  he  rang  and  ordered  his  horse.  He  was 
fond  of  riding  in  the  dusk  for  an  hour  or  two  before  dinner. 
But  as  he  was  about  to  mount  his  horse,  he  heard  the  sound 
of  wheels  coming  up  the  avenue  which  led  to  the  western 
door  of  the  house,  a petite  entree  only  used  by  intimate  and 
privileged  persons. 

“ Who  can  it  be  ? ” Guilderoy  wondered  to  himself,  for  no  one 
then  in  the  county,  to  his  own  knowledge,  was  on  sufficiently 
friendly  terms  with  him  to  come  thither  uninvited.  A mo- 
ment after  he  caught  sight  of  the  invader,  and  with 
pleasure  and  astonishment  recognized  his  cousin,  Lord 
Aubrey. 

A few  moments  later  he  welcomed  him  at  the  west  door. 

“My  dear  Francis,  how  glad  I am  ! ” he  said  with  perfect 
sincerity.  “To  what  good  chance  do  we  owe  this  happy 
surprise  ? ” 

“If  you  bestowed  a little  attention  on  the  politics  of  your 
<\wn  country,”  replied  Lord  Aubrey,  “you  would  know  that 
1 had  to  attend  a meeting  in  your  own  town  yesterday.  I 
heard  you  were  here,  and  I did  not  like  to  be  so  near  Ladys- 
rood  without  passing  a night  with  you.  If  I had  known 
sooner  the  date  of  the  meeting,  I would  have  sent  you  word, 
but  it  was  made  a week  earlier  than  I expected  at  the 
eleventh  hour.” 

“I  am  delighted  to  see  you,  and  there  could  be  never  the 
slightest  occasion  to  let  me  know  beforehand.  Ladysrood  is 
yours  whether  I am  in  it  or  not.  Would  you  like  to  go 
direct  to  your  rooms,  and  I will  take  you  to  Hilda  after- 
wards.” 

“ With  pleasure,”  said  Lord  Aubrey.  “ I am  hoarse, 
dusty,  and  stupid,  for  I have  been  declaiming  for  three  hours 
on  policy  to  some  five  thousand  people,  of  whom  four  thou- 
sand probably  would  spell  policy  with  an  s , if  they  could 
spell  it  at  all.” 

“Spelling  is  a prejudice,  like  a love  for  ground  leases,” 
said  Guilderoy.  “ Come  and  have  a bath  and  forget  demos 
for  a day.” 

“You  continue  to  forget  him  always,”  said  Lord  Aubrey. 

Francis  de  Lisle,  Lord  Aubrey,  was  a cousin-german  of 
Guilderoy?s,  and  some  few  years  older  than  himself.  He  was 
a tall  man,  with  an  air  of  great  distinction  and  an  expression 
at  once  melancholy  and  amused,  cynical  and  good-humored. 
He  carried  his  great  height  somewhat  listlessly  and  indolent 


20 


GUILDEROY. 


ly,  and  his  gray  eyes  were  half  veiled  by  sleepy  eyelids,  from 
which  they  could,  however,  flash  glances  which  searched  the 
inmost  souls  of  others.  He  was  heir  to  a marquisate,  and 
had  dedicated  his  whole  life  to  what  he  considered  to  be  the 
obligations  of  his  station.  He  did  not  like  public  life,  but 
he  followed  it  with  conscientiousness  and  self-sacrifice.  He 
was  not  a man  of  genius,  but  he  had  the  power  of  moving 
and  of  controlling  other  men,  and  his  absolute  sincerity  of 
character  and  of  utterance  was  known  to  the  whole  country. 

“ How  is  your  sister  ? ” he  asked  now,  as  he  came  to  the 
tea-room.  “ And  what  are  you  doing  in  the  west  of  England 
in  autumn,  you  who  hate  gray  skies  and  cold  winds  ? ” 

“ I am  delighted  to  be  in  the  west  of  England  since  it 
affords  me  a quiet  day  with  you,”  said  Guilderoy  with  perfect 
truth,  for  he  liked  and  admired  his  cousin.  He  had,  indeed, 
a warmer  feeling  towards  Lord  Aubrey  than  Aubrey  had  for 
him.  A man  who  has  combated  his  own  indolence  and 
become  excessively  occupied  is  apt  to  have  slight  patience 
with  a man  who  has  allowed  his  indolence  and  his  instincts 
to  be  the  sole  controllers  of  his  life.  Guilderoy’s  existence 
was  a union  of  contemplation  and  pleasure  ; to  Lord  Aubrey 
it  appeared  the  existence  of  an  unconscionable  egotist ; and 
yet  he  had  a friendly  regard  for  the  egotist. 

“ You  have  much  more  talent  than  I have,”  he  said  once 
to  his  cousin,  “ and  yet  your  voice  is  never  heard  by  the 
country  ; ” and  Guilderoy  gave  him  much  the  s-ame  reasons 
for  his  silence  which  he  had  given  to  his  sister. 

“ You  believe  in  a great  many  things  and  you  care  about 
others,”  he  added.  “Now  I do  not  believe,  and  I do  not 
care.  Talent,  even  if  I possess  it — which  I doubt— cannot 
replace  the  forces  which  come  from  conviction.  Those  forces 
I have  not.” 

“ Here  is  your  model  hero  ; the  one  perfect  person  endowed 
with  all  the  virtues  and  moral  conscientiousness  in  which  I 
am  so  sadly  deficient,”  said  Guilderoy  to  his  sister,  as  he  en- 
tered her  presence  with  his  cousin  as  the  sun  descended  over 
the  western  woods. 

“ I admit  that  I wish  your  life  were  more  like  his  ; you 
would  probably  be  happier  and  certainly  more  useful,”  said 
Lady  Sunbury,  as  she  welcomed  Aubrey  with  more  cordiality 
than  she  showed  to  most  people. 

“I  am  by  no  means  sure,”  said  Aubrey,  “that  when  one 
does  choose  Fallas  one  is  always  right  in  the  choice,  if  Her- 


GUILDEROT. 


21 


cules  were  5 and  if  one  is  as  intolerant  of  being  bored  as 
Evelyn  is,  it  L no  kind  of  use  to  take  her ; a divorce  would 
be  sued  for  immediately.” 

“ You  do  not  regret  your  choice,  surely  ? ” said  Hilda  Sun- 
bury,  in  some  surprise.  Aubrey  always  seemed  to  her  to  be 
as  absorbed  in  public  life  as  other  men  are  in  pleasure. 

“ I did  not  say  that  I regretted,”  he  replied,  “ but  misgiv- 
ings visit  one  inevitably.  A quel  bon!  One  cannot  help 
thinking  that  now  and  then.  I dare  say  a man  of  absolute 
genius  does  not  have  that  doubt,  but  when  one  is  a very 
ordinary  personage  one  must  feel  now  and  then  that  one 
might  as  well  have  enjoyed  oneself  and  let  the  nation  alone.” 

“ You  are  too  modest ; your  example  alone  is  of  the  most 
infinite  benefit.  There  is  something  so  noble  in  a man  who 
has  nothing  to  gain  and  everything  to  lose  devoting  himself 
to  political  life.  It  is  those  sacrifices  which  have  made  the 
strength  of  England  and  of  the  aristocracy  of  England.” 

Aubrey  smiled,  a little  sadly : “We  shall  not  last  very 

long,  do  whatever  we  will.” 

“ I do  not  believe  the  principle  of  aristocracy  will  ever  die 
out,”  said  Lady  Sunbury,  resolutely.  “ It  is  rooted  in  human 
nature  and  in  nature  itself.  All  governments  drift  towards 
it  whatever  they  call  themselves.  Even  savage  tribes  have 
a chief.  Where  our  party  has  been  so  culpable  has  been  in 
pretending  to  agree  with  those  who  deny  this.  Toryism 
should  liave  the  courage  of  its  opinions.” 

“ Certainly  the  first  virtue  of  an  aristocracy  should  bo 
courage,”  said  her  cousin.  u An  aristocracy  is  nothing  with- 
out it.  A democracy  in  England  would  have  sent  a humble 
deputation  and  the  keys  of  the  Cinque  Ports  to  Napoleon 
after  Austerlitz.  What  stood  against  him  and  prevailed 
against  him  were  the  valor  and  the  stubborn  patriotism  of 
the  English  nobility.  Aristocratic  governments  are  often 
faulty ; they  may  be  arrogant,  illiberal,  prejudiced ; they 
may  be  so,  though  they  are  not  so  necessarily  ; but 
there  is  one  fine  quality  in  them  which  no  democracy  ever 
possesses : they  have  honor.  A democracy  cannot  under- 
stand honor ; how  should  it  ? The  caucus  is  chiefly  made 
up  of  men  who  sand  their  sugar,  put  alum  in  their  bread, 
forge  bayonets  and  girders  which  bend  like  willow  wands, 
send  bad  calico  to  India,  pay  their  operatives  by  the  tally 
shop,  and  insure  vessels  at  Lloyd’s  which  they  know  will  go 
to  the  bottom  before  they  have  been  ten  days  at  sea. 


22 


GTJILDEBOY . 


Honor  is  an  idealic  and  impersonal  tiling;  it  can  only  exist 
in  men  who  have  inherited  its  traditions  and  have  learned  to 
rate  it  higher  than  all  material  success.” 

“I  quite  agree  with  you/7  said  Guilderoy.  “ Unless  we 
honestly  believe  that  we  are  the  natural  leaders  of  the  nation 
by  virtue  of  the  honor  which  we  uphold  and  represent,  we 
have  no  business  to  attempt  to  lead  it,  and  we  ought  not  to 
conceal  or  to  disavow  that  we  have  that  belief  in  ourselves. 
Lord  Salisbury  has  been  often  accused  of  arrogance  ; people 
have  never  seen  that  what  they  mistook  for  arrogance  was  the 
natural,  candid  consciousness  of  a great  noble,  that  he  is 
more  capable  of  leading  the  country  than  most  men  com- 
posing it  would  be.  If  a man  have  not  that  belief  in  himself 
he  has  no  business  to  assume  command  anywhere,  whether 
in  a cabinet,  or  in  a camp,  or  in  a cricket  field.  I have  no 
sort  of  belief  in  myself,  and  therefore  I have  always  let  the 
State  roll  on  without  help  or  hindrance  from  me  in  any 
way.77 

“You  may  be  a hindrance,  without  knowing  it,77  mur- 
mured Aubrey ; “ a boulder  in  a highroad  does  not  move, 
but  sometimes  it  overturns  the  carriage  'as  effectually  as 
if  it  did.77 

“By  which  you  mean 77 

“ That  when  the  Radicals  of  your  country  are  disposed  to 
point  to  great  landowners  who  lead  their  lives  to  very  little 
purpose  except  that  of  their  own  enjoyment,  you,  my  dear 
Guilderoy,  are  conveniently  at  hand  to  be  pointed  at,  and  to 
sharpen  the  moral  of  their  tale.77 

“ It  is  wholly  impossible  for  them  to  know  what  I do  with 
my  life,77  said  Guilderoy  with  some  anger. 

“Clearly;  but  they  judge  from  wThat  they  see;  and  you 
may  be  sure  that  they  lose  no  time  in  making  your  country- 
side see  with  their  eyes.  For  aught  they  can  tell,  no  doubt, 
you  may  be  visiting  prisons  like  Howard,  or  capturing  slave 
dhows  like  Gordon,  all  the  time  you  are  away  from  England  ; 
but  they  do  not  think  so,  and  all  they  tell  the  county  is  that 
you  have  an  immense  income,  which  you  don’t  earn,  and 
that  you  spend  it  anywhere  sooner  than  in  England.  I am 
not  saying  that  they  have  any  business  to  make  such  re- 
marks; I only  say  that  they  do  make  them.77 

“Let  them  make  them  and  be  damned  ! 77  said  Guilderoy.77 

“With  all  my  heart,77  said  his  cousin.  “Only  it  is  not 
they  who  ever  are  damned ; it  is  always  the  poor,  stupid, 


GUILDEROY. 


23 


hungry,  gullible  crowd,  which  is  led  astray  by  them,  and  ia 
made  to  believe  that  it  would  mend  matters  to  burn  down 
great  houses  and  cut  down  old  woods. 

“ You  are  always  saying,”  continued  Lord  Aubrey,  “ that 
you  wonder  why  I bore  myself  with  public  life.  It  does  bore 
me  endlessly,  immeasurably — that  I grant ; but  apart  from 
all  other  reasons,  you  know,  Evelyn,  I must  confess  that  men 
in  our  position  owe  it  to  the  country  not  to  leave  politics 
wholly  in  the  hands  of  professional  politicians.  The  profes- 
sional politician  may  be  honest,  but  his  honesty  is  at  best  a 
questionable  quality.  The  moment  that  a thing  is  a metier 
it  is  wholly  absurd  to  talk  about  any  disinterestedness  in  the 
pursuit  of  it.  To  the  professional  politician  national  affairs 
are  a manufacture  into  which  he  puts  his  audacity  and  his 
time,  and  out  of  which  he  expects  to  make  so  much  percent- 
age for  his  lifetime.  I say  that  we  have  no  business,  be- 
cause we  are  lazy  and  fastidious,  to  let  the  vast  mass  of  the 
uneducated  and  credulous  who  make  up  the  mass  of  our 
nation  be  led  by  false  guides,  who  only  use  them  to  climb 
up  on  their  shoulders  to  power.  If  we  found  a man  persuad- 
ing a child  to  eat  poison  by  telling  him  that  it  was  honey, 
we  should  be  as  guilty  as  the  intending  murderer  if  we  did 
not  strike  the  cup  down  and  tell  the  child  of  the  danger  it 
ran.  That  poor,  overgrown,  ill-educated  child,  the  people — 
the  People  with  a big  P — is  always  having  poison  thrust  on 
it  under  the  guise  of  honey.  If  we  do  not  try  to  show  it 
what  the  cup  really  holds,  I think  we  are  to  blame.  That  is 
the  feeling  which  has  moved  me  to  endeavor  to  do  what  I 
can.  I should  be  uneasy  if  I did  not  do  it.  After  all  one 
can  only  act  according  to  one’s  light.” 

“You  are  a very  conscientious  man,  my  dear  Aubrey,” 
said  Guilderoy,  “ and  I admire  if  I do  not  imitate  you.  The 
overgrown  child  will,  however,  always  prefer  the  deceiver, 
who  tenders  it  the  poison,  to  you  who  are  so  careful  over  its 
health.” 

“ That  must  be  as  it  may,”  said  Aubrey,  “ I cannot  help 
the  results.  Men  never  know  their  best  friends  in  public 
life  or  private.  That  instinct  is  reserved  for  dogs.” 

“ I can  well  believe  that  you  are  indifferent  to  ingratitude,” 
said  Guilderoy,  “ and  I am  convinced  you  are  the  servant 
of  your  conscience.  But  will  you  tell  me  how  you  stand 
the  vulgarity  of  public  life  ? It  has  become  so  hopelessly 
vulgar ! ” 


24 


GUILDEROY. 


“That  I grant.  And  it  is  just  its  vulgarity  which  will,  I 
fear,  every  year  alienate  the  higher  minds  from  it  more  and 
more,  and  send  them  instead  to  their  bookcases  and  their 
inkstands.  I confess  when  I have  shouted  for  an  hour  or 
two  on  a hustings  before  a general  election,  I have  felt  my- 
self on  no  better  intellectual  level  than  a Cheap  John.  To 
be  compelled  ‘ to  go  on  the  stump ’ is  a prospect  which  may 
fairly  make  a man  who  has  any  refinement  or  delicacy  about 
him  shun  political  life  as  he  would  shun  a collier’s  pot-house. 
There  is  too  great  a tendency  to  .govern  the  world  by  noise.” 
“On  the  whole  I think  I have  the  better  part,”  said 
Guilderoy. 

“ So  far  as  your  own  ease  goes,  not  a doubt  of  it.” 

“ Evelyn  does  not  admit  that  there  is  such  a thing  as  duty,” 
remarked  Lady  Sunbury  from  her  tea-table. 

“ I do  not  like  the  word  duty,”  said  Guilderoy.  “ It  is 
puritanic  and  illogical.  If  we  are  what  science  seems  to 
prove,  mere  automata  formed  of  cells  and  fibres  accidentally 
meeting,  we  clearly  are  wholly  irresponsible  creatures.  Nero 
is  as  innocent  as  St.  Francis.” 

“ What  a shocking  theory  ! ” 

“As  shocking  as  you  please.  But  it  is  the  only  logical 
outcome  of  the  conclusions  of  physiology.” 

“I  do  not  enter  the  lists  with  physiology,”  said  Aubrey, 
“but  it  may  say  what  it  will,  it  cannot  prevent  my  con  scious- 
ness  of  an  Ego,  which  inclines  to  evil,  and  an  Ego  which  tells 
me  to  avoid  it.  It  is  nothing  very  great  to  claim.  A dog 
has  it.  He  longs  to  steal  a bone,  and  he  restrains  from  steal- 
ing it ; he  longs  to  bite  a hand  which  hurts  him  and  abstains 
from  doing  so  if  he  finds  the  hand  is  a friend’s.  I do  not  think 
conscience  is  exclusively  a human  possession,  though  it  may 
have  become  larger  in  human  than  in  other  animals.  But  it 
is  strong  enough  in  me  to  make  me  sensible  that  I am  in  a 
very  great  measure  responsible  for  my  actions,  and  all  the 
philosophies  on  earth  will  never  talk  me  out  of  that  belief.  ” 
“And  the  belief  has  sent  you  to  the  House  of  Commons?” 
“Just  so  ; I admit  the  pathos — I admit  the  justice  of  your 
implied  satire.  But  I go  to  the  House  of  Commons  because, 
feeling  as  I feel,  I should  do  violence  to  my  conscience  not 
to  go  to  it.  That  sounds  horribly  priggish,  but  I cannot 
express  what  I mean  otherwise.” 

“ I wish  the  country  had  a great  many  more  men  who  felt 
like  you,”  said  Guilderoy. 


GBILDEROY.  25 

He  walked  about  a few  minutes  restlessly,  then,  his  sister 
Saving  left  the  room,  he  asked  with  some  abruptness: 

“You  came  last  week  from  Marienbad  ? Did  you  see  the 
Duchess  Soria  ? ” 

“Yes,  I saw  her.  She  wondered  very  much  not  to  see 
you.” 

“ Did  she  say  so  ? ” 

“ She  said  so  with  considerable  bitterness.  Why  were  you 
not  there  ? ” 

“ I do  not  care  to  do  what  I am  expected  to  do,”  replied 
Guilderoy  with  some  impatience  and  some  sullenness.  “ There 
can  be  no  pleasure  where  there  is  no  imprevu ; where  there 
is  nothing  voluntary.  Women  never  understand  that.  Half 
the  passions  of  men  die  early  because  they  are  expected  to  be 
eternal.  Half  the  love  which  women  excite  they  destroy,  be- 
cause they  stifle  it  by  captivity  in  a hot-house,  as  a child 
might  kill  a wild  bird.” 

Aubrey  looked  at  him  with  some  amusement. 

“ You  are  undoubtedly  right.  Even  I,  who  have  no  pre- 
tensions to  much  experience  in  the  soft  science,  am  aware 
that  you  are  most  undeniably  right.  But  how  do  you  pro- 
pose to  get  any  woman — and  any  woman  in  love — to  under- 
stand that  ? ” 

“ I do  not  even  hope  it,”  replied  Guilderoy,  wearily,  “ I 
only  remark  that  the  utter  inability  of  women  to  understand 
it  brings  about  their  own  unhappiness  much  sooner  than  it 
would  otherwise  come  to  them.  If  they  comprehended  that 
the  bird  wants  fresh  air,  he  would  very  possibly  often  return 
of  his  own  good  will  to  the  hot-house.” 

“ And  tell  the  tale  of  his  amours  en  voyage  ? My  dear 
Evelyn,  the  lady  would  have  to  be  as  wise  as  Penelope  and 
as  amorous  as  Calypso  to  receive  him  on  such  terms.” 

“ It  would  be  love  ; whereas  now  it  is  only  love  of  posses- 
sion.” 

“You  certainly  ask  a great  deal  of  love,  and  seem  to  be  in- 
clined to  give  very  little.” 

“One  can  only  give  what  one  has.  Women  reproach  us 
with  ceasing  to  care  for  them.  Is  it  our  fault  ? We  cannot 
control  impulse.” 

Aubrey  looked  at  him  once  more. 

“ Poor  women  ! ” he  said,  involuntarily. 

Guilderoy  moved  impatiently. 

*{  There  is  no  doubt  of  the  Duchess’s  devotion  to  you/ 


26 


GUILDEROr. 


added  his  cousin.  “On  my  honor,  I think  she  suffers  a 
great  deal.  She  has  been  a coquette,  no  doubt,  but  she  has 
never  been  a coquette  with  you.” 

“ I do  not  think  we  ought  to  speak  of  her,”  said  Guilderoy. 

“Certainly  not,  unless  you  wish  it.  You  introduced  her 
name  first.” 

“ My  dear  Aubrey,”  said  Guilderoy  with  some  violence, 
“ of  all  intolerable  things  on  earth  a passion  which  survives 
on  one  side  and  dies  on  the  other  is  the  worst.  There  is  no 
peace  possible  in  it.  You  feel  like  a brute,  whilst  honestly 
you  are  no  more  to  be  blamed  than  the  sea  is  to  be  blamed 
because  after  high  tide  its  waters  recede.  No  man  is  ac- 
countable for  the  flow  and  reflow  of  his  own  emotions. 
Women  speak  as  though  the  heart  were  to  be  heated  at  will 
like  a stove  or  a bath.  Now  of  all  spontaneous,  capricious, 
changeful,  and  ungovernable  things,  the  passions  are  the 
most  wayward  and  the  least  reasonable.  Why  do  you  love  ? 
You  cannot  say.  Why  do  you  cease  to  love  ? You  probably 
cannot  say  either.  The  forces  of  your  emotions  and  desires 
are  wholly  beyond  your  own  control.  They  are  not  electric 
machines — mere  Leyden  jars  which  you  can  charge  at  will. 
Why  then  is  it  a reproach  to  cease  to  love  ? It  is  as  involun- 
tary as  it  was  to  love  at  all  in  the  beginning.” 
brey  smiled  a little  dubiously. 

“ Excellently  reasoned ! I should  be  disposed  to  admit 
your  arguments,  but  I doubt  very  much  whether  the  Duchess 
Soria  would  see  the  force  of  them.” 

“You  think  she  was  annoyed  that  I was  not  there  ?” 

“ She  was  much  more  than  annoyed ; she  was  indignant 
and  wounded.  That  was  easy  to  see.  She  is  not  a woman 
who  cares  to  conceal  what  she  feels.  Why  were  you  not 
there,  by  the  way  ? ” 

“I  dislike  everything  which  is  made  an  obligation — I told 
you  so.  What  is  feeling  worth  if  it  degenerate  into  a 
habit  ? ” 

“All  feeling  runs  to  seed  in  that  fashion,  unless  it  is 
broken  off  sharply  whilst  it  is  still  in  blossom ; a painful 
fact,  but  a fact.  Here  and  there  perhaps  there  is  a sentiment 
strong  enough  to  endure  through  all  the  changes  of  its 
growth,  so  that  instead  of  decay  it  reaches  almost  perfection  ; 
but  it  is  very  rare,  and  can  only  be  the  issue  of  an  unique 
character.” 

“ The  ideal  love,  of  course,  does  so  ; but  it  does  not  exist 


GUILDEROY. 


2? 


out  of  the  dreams  of  boyhood  and  of  poets/’  answered  Guil- 
deroy,  impatiently.  “ There  is  attraction,  and  there  is  its 
reaction  ; and  between  the  two  the  time  is  more  or  less  short, 
according  to  temperament  and  circumstances.  But  the  end 
is  always  the  same.” 

“ What  you  call  attraction  I should  not  call  love.  I should 
give  it  an  uglier  name.” 

“ Give  it  any  name  you  like ; it  is  all  there  is.  It  become* 
poetic,  however,  in  poetic  natures.” 

“ My  nature  is  absolute  prose,  so  I cannot  pretend  to 
understand,”  said  Aubrey ; but  although  he  said  so,  it  was 
not  quite  so  sincerely  spoken  as  was  his  wont.  He  had  a 
vein  of  romance  in  his  character,  beneath  the  coldness  of  his 
exterior  and  the  prosaic  nature  of  his  occupations.  When 
he  had  been  quite  a boy  he  had  made  a secret  marriage  from 
pure  love.  It  had  lasted  a brief  space,  and  had  ended  ill. 
The  woman  for  whom  he  had  sacrificed  much  had  been  false 
to  him  in  a gross  and  brutal  intrigue.  He  had  not  made  his 
wound  public,  and  she  had  died  not  long  after  his  discovery  of 
her  infidelity.  No  one  had  been  aware  of  this  unfortunate 
drama  in  his  life,  but  it  had  made  him  at  once  indifferent  to 
women,  and  sympathetic  with  all  sorrows  of  the  affections. 
He  never  laughed  at  those  who  suffered.  His  own  wound 
had  healed,  indeed,  long  ago,  but  now  and  then  a nerve  still 
thrilled  under  the  remembrance  of  its  pain.  Love  had  little 
place  now  in  his  busy  and  laborious  life,  but  his  estimate  of 
it  was  higher  than  his  cousin’s,  the  doors  of  whose  life  stood 
wide  open  to  it  all  seasons  through.  If  there  was  any- 
thing in  human  nature  which  made  him  irritable,  it  was  to 
hear  men  speak  of  the  passions  of  life  as  Guilderoy  spoke  of 
them.  “If  they  are  playthings  they  are  not  passions,”  he 
was  wont  to  say,  “no  more  than  the  fireworks  on  the  Arc  de 
l’Etoile  are  the  flames  of  the  Commune.” 

For  errors  which  were  the  birth  of  passion  he  had  infinite 
sympathy,  but  with  the  mere  caprices  of  the  senses  and  the 
fancy  he  had  little  patience. 

“ He  should  marry,”  said  Lady  Sunbury  to  him  of  her 
brother,  repeating  her  favorite  lament. 

Aubrey  laughed. 

“I  should  certainty  pity  his  wife,”  he  replied. 

“Why?”  said  Lady  Sunbury,  irritated.  “She  wouldi 
have  a very  agreeable  position.” 


28 


GtllLDEROY. 


“ Oh,  no  doubt/’  assented  Aubrey.  “ If  she  were  satisfied 
with  position.  Perhaps  she  would  not  be.” 

“Women  are  not  romantic  nowadays/’  said  his  cousin,  in 
the  tone  with  which  she  would  have  said  that  women  did  not 
wear  patches. 

“ I suppose  that  there  are  as  many — or  as  few — times  d’ elite 
now  as  then,”  replied  Aubrey.  “ There  never  can  have 
been  very  many.  Why  should  you  want  him  to  marry  ? ” 
he  continued ; “ you  know  you  would  hate  a saint  if  he 
married  her.” 

“ I am  sure  I should  be  delighted,”  said  Lady  Sun  bury* 
and  was  fully  persuaded  that  she  spoke  the  truth. 

Aubrey  smiled. 

He  spent  that  day  at  Ladysrood,  and  then  took  his  depar- 
ture for  his  own  place — Balfrons,  in  the  north.  Balfrons 
was  a mighty  border  castle  which  had  withstood  raids  and 
sieges  from  the  days  of  Hotspur,  and  it  gave  its  name  to  the 
marquisate  which  he  would  inherit  on  the  death  of  his  father, 
already  a very  old  man  of  feeble  health,  who  was  but  seldom 
seen  by  the  world. 

“ I wonder  what  he  would  do  with  his  life  if  he  allowed 
himself  to  do  what  he  wishes  ? ” said  Guilderoy,  when  his 
cousin  had  gone. 

“ He  would  never  leave  Balfrons,  and  would  collect  early 
Latin  manuscripts  of  Virgil,”  replied  Lady  Sunbury. 

“ Almost  as  dreary  a paradise  as  his  present  purgatory.” 

“ That  is  a matter  of  taste.  You  prefer  to  collect  a num- 
ber of  erotic  memories  which  soon  grow  as  fusty  to  you  as  if 
they  were  used  tea-leaves.” 

“ They  are  at  least  as  amusing  as  old  Italian  manuscripts  ” 

“Not  as  harmless/’  said  Lady  Sunbury. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  next  day,  after  his  cousin’s  departure,  very  early  in 
the  forenoon  Guilderoy  rode  out  whilst  the  day  was  still 
young.  Riding  was  the  only  active  exercise  which  pleased 
him ; he  rode  well,  and  with  great  boldness  and  sureness  ; his 
sister  sometimes  told  him  that  it  was  the  only  English  taste 


GU7LDER0T. 


29 


lie  possessed.  He  could  ride  many  miles  without  passing  the 
limits  of  his  own  land,  and  much  of  this  was  the  wild  moor- 
land lying  high  and  wind-blown  between  the  woods  of  Ladys- 
rood  and  the  cliffs  by  the  sea.  Over  the  short  elastic  turf  he 
could  gallop  for  hours  and  meet  no  fence,  or  boundary  mark, 
©r  human  habitation.  The  western  wind  came  straight  in 
his  face  from  the  Atlantic,  and  there  was  nothing  but  salt 
water  between  him  and  the  coast  of  Maine.  The  world  had 
been  too  much  with  him  to  leave  him  great  leisure  for  the 
enjoyment  of  Nature,  but  he  had  a vague  feeling  for  her 
which  resisted  the  opposing  influences  of  the  world,  and  re- 
vived in  the  force  it  had  had  in  his  boyhood  whenever  he  was 
alone  in  the  open  air,  or  moor  or  shore  or  mountain. 

The  moor  and  the  shore  and  the  mountain  could  not  hold 
him  very  long,  but  while  it  lasted  his  sympathy  with  them 
was  sincere  and  his  pleasure  in  their  loneliness  very  real.  It 
was  not  the  love  of  Wordsworth  or  of  Tennyson,  but  it  was 
genuine  in  its  kind,  and  gave  momentary  seriousness  and  ro- 
mance to  his  temperament  and  his  thoughts.  In  the  heart 
of  a man  who  loves  Nature  there  are  always  some  green 
places  where  the  caravan  wheels  of  the  world  have  not 
passed,  or  the  hoofs  of  its  carnival  coursers  trodden. 

It  was  seldom  that  he  saw  anyone  or  anything  on.  these 
moors  beyond  a pedler  or  a turf-cutter,  a carrier’s  cart  creep- 
ing slowly  across  the  track  which  led  from  one  hamlet  to  an- 
other, or  a cottager  carrying  on  her  head  a bundle  of  cut 
furze  or  a basket  of  bilberries,  that  he  looked  curiously  at  a 
little  crowd  of  people  which  he  saw'  on  the  edge  of  the  moor, 
their  figures  black  against  the  light  of  the  sky.  From  them, 
as  he  drew  nearer,  there  came  to  his  ear  an  angry,  screaming 
noise,  the  ugly  noise  of  irritated  roughs,  and  he  could  distin- 
guish the  uncouth  figures  of  village  lads  about  wdiom  several 
lurchers  and  other  dogs  were  jumping  and  yelping  excitedly. 
The  centre  of  the  excitement  was  a hut  or  cabin  made  of 
wattles  such  as  was  used  by  the  turf  and  bog-cutters  of  the 
moors ; generally  such  places  were  only  used  for  shelter  in 
bad  weather,  but  this  one  was  stronger  than  most,  and  braced 
with  beams,  and  had  a door  of  wood,  having  served  as  the 
home  of  some  squatters  at  one  time,  though  of  late  it  had 
been  empty. 

“They  are  after  some  barbarous  sport  or  another,'’  thought 
Guilderoy,  as  he  heard  the  hoarse  shouts.  “ Torturing  some 
beast,  very  likely,  or,  perhaps,  some  half-witted  human  crea- 
ture.” 


30 


GUILDEROY. 


He  turned  his  horse  to  the  left  and  rode  towards  the  little 
mob,  which  was  a very  rough  one,  composed  chiefly  of  lads 
from  the  other  side  of  the  moors,  where  the  scattered  and 
uncared-for  people  were  more  savage  and  uncouth  than  those 
on  the  domains  of  Ladysrood. 

“ Let  un  fire  her  out ! ” he  heard  one  of  them  cry,  as  he 
rode  nearer,  and  the  welcome  shout  was  echoed  with  noise 
and  glee.  “ Let  un  fire  her  out ! Let  un  fire  her  out ! ” 

“Who  is  she?”  asked  Guilderoy,  “and  what  are  you 
going  to  do?  What  do  you  mean  by  your  threats  about 
fire  ? ” 

The  ringleaders  looked  at  him  sullenly. 

“’Tis  the  lord,”  they  muttered. 

They  were  some  score  in  number,  lads  ranging  from  fifteen 
to  twenty,  beetle-browed,  coarse-featured,  with  jaws  like  their 
own  bulldogs,  and  small  dull  savage  eyes,  items  of  that  en- 
lightened and  purified  democracy  to  which  is  henceforth 
trusted  the  realm  of  Britain. 

It  was  a Saturday  morning,  and  they  had  nothing  useful 
to  do,  and  so  were  doing  mischief. 

“What  are  you  about  ?”  asked  Guilderoy  again,  more  im- 
periously. 

What  struck  him  as  singular  was  that  whilst  the  young 
men  and  their  dogs  were  in  uproar,  jostling,  hallooing, 
swearing  and  yelping,  from  the  hut  not  the  faintest  sound 
came. 

“ Have  they  frightened  to  death  whatever  it  is  they  are 
persecuting  ? ” he  thought,  with  difficulty  keeping  his  horse 
quiet  amidst  the  hubbub  and  the  menacing  gestures  of  the 
youths. 

“What  are  you  about?”  he  demanded;  “answer  me  at 
once.  What  devilry  are  you  doing  ? ” 

He  had  little  doubt  that  they  had  hunted  in  there  some 
poor  old  creature  whom  they  thought  a witch.  Witchcraft 
was  firmly  believed  in  on  the  moors,  and  often  rudely  dealt 
with  by  village  superstition. 

Their  clamor  ceased  a little  while,  and  one  of  them  called 
to  him : 

“ She’s  shut  herself  in  with  it,  and  it’s  ours,  and  we’re 
going  to  burn  ’em  both  out ; she’s  kept  us  here  fooling  us 
three  hours.” 

“ What  is  it  ? and  who  is  she  ? ” asked  Guilderoy,  and  he 
struck  with  his  riding-whip  out  of  the  hand  of  the  man  who 


GUILDEROY . 


31 


spoke  a wooden  box  of  lucifer  matches.  There  was  a quan- 
tity of  dry  furze  already  piled  against  the  wall  of  the  hut, 
which  if  set  alight  would  have  flared  like  straw. 

They  did  not  reply,  but  some  of  them  roared  like  animals 
deprived  of  prey  which  they  had  thought  safe  in  their  jaws. 

“ Answer  me/'  he  repeated,  “ you  know  who  I am.  I have 
a right  to  be  answered,  you  are  on  my  land/’ 

“?Tis  a tod,”  one  of  them  shouted,  “and  we  turned  it  out 
to  hunt  it  with  the  dogs,  and  we’d  run  it  into  a cranny,  and 
she  come  up  and  catch  hold  of  it  and  tear  away,  and  we 
hunted  of  her  then  in  here,  and  she’s  fleet  of  foot  as  any  hare, 
and  she  hied  in  quick  as  thought  and  banged  the  door  and 
barred  it,  and  she’s  kept  us,  making  fools  of  us  three  hours  if 
one,  and  she  knows  we’ll  burn  her  out,  and  she  won’t  give  it 
up,  and  she  knows  we  bought  it  at  the  public  at  Cherriton 
for  we  told  her  so,  and  brought  it  in  a bag  and  turned  it 
down,  only  it  run  bad  because  it’s  such  a little  un.” 

“ You  have  lost  a fox-cub,  I understand,”  said  Guilderoy, 
when  the  narrator  ceased.  “ But  who  is  it  that  you  have  in 
there,  and  that  you  are  brutes  enough  to  want  to  burn 
out  ? ” 

“It’s  the  young  un  of  Christslea,”  said  the  youth  sullenly. 

“ Who  do  you  mean  ? ” 

“’Tis  the  Vernon  girl,”  cried  another  of  the  rioters.  “ She’s 
a spirit  she  have,  but  we’ll  break  it.  We’ll  have  the  tod  if 
we  have  him  roasted.” 

“ You  unutterable  beasts  ! ” cried  Guildero}7’,  in  the  passion 
which  cowardice  and  tyranny  together  rouse  in  a man  who  is 
both  courageous  and  merciful,  “ Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
there  is  a child  or  a girl  in  there  ? ” 

“ She  went  in  with  the  tod,”  said  the  lad  sullenly,  and 
those  around  him  yelled  in  chorus.  “How  dared  she  go  and 
take  the  beast  and  spoil  our  sport  ? The  tod  was  ours  not 
hers.  And  she  cuddled  it  up  in  her  neck  as  if  it  was  a baby. 
We’ll  burn  her  out,  and  then  we’ll  toss  up  for  her,”  cried  an- 
other voice,  and  the  suggestion  was  received  with  shouts  of 
applause. 

“You  are  on  my  land,  and  I am  a magistrate,”  said 
Guilderoy,  controlling  with  difficulty  his  fury  and  disgust  as 
he  dismounted,  and  holding  his  plunging  horse  with  one 
hand,  with  the  other  he  struck  the  handle  of  his  whip  on  the 
door  of  the  hut. 

“ My  dear^  do  not  be  alarmed,”  he  said  to  the  unseen  occu- 


S2 


GUILEEBOY . 


pant  within.  “ These  brutes  shall  not  hurt  you.  Open  the 
door.  I will  take  care  of  you.  I am  Lord  Guilderoy,  and 
these  moors  are  mine.” 

A very  clear  young  voice  with  a tremor  in  it  answered 
through  the  door: 

“ I can  not  open  it,  because  if  I do  they  will  take  the  little 
fox.” 

“No,  they  shall  not  take  the  cub,”  said  Guilderoy,  and  he 
turned  to  the  men.  “ You  have  behaved  worse  than  your 
mongrels,  but  I will  consent  to  believe  that  you  would  have 
failed  to  carry  out  your  dastardly  and  brutal  threats.  There 
is  a sovereign  for  the  loss  of  the  cub ; now  go  back  to  wher- 
ever you  came  from,  and  do  not  forget  that  your  misera- 
ble sport  is  illegal  on  these  lands.  Go  ! ” 

The  little  mob  wavered,  growled,  and  swore  under  its 
breath ; then  one  of  them  picked  up  the  gold  piece  where  it 
lay  on  the  ground,  to  slink  off  with  it  unremarked. 

“ Share  fair  ! ” yelled  the  others,  and  they  fell  on  him ; 
and  wrestling,  quarrelling,  yelling,  and  casting  shamefaced 
and  sullen  glances  over  their  shoulders  at  “ the  lord,”  they 
slunk  away  across  the  moor  in  the  warm,  amber  light  of  the 
full  noonday. 

The  ground  sloped  slightly  downwards  to  the  northeast, 
and  thither  they  went  ; the  rise  soon  screened  their  forms 
from  view,  though  the  echo  of  their  voices  in  rough  and 
fierce  dispute  came  to  the  ear  of  Guilderoy  as  he  stood  by 
the  cabin  door. 

“Admirable  persons  to  have  been  made  our  masters  by 
Act  of  Parliament ! ” he  thought,  as  the  sullen  mutterings  of 
their  oaths  came  to  his  ear  on  the  westerly  wind. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  door  of  the  cabin,  and  rapped  on  it 
with  the  handle  of  his  whip. 

“ The  brutes  are  gone,”  he  said  through  the  key-hole. 
“ You  may  come  out  quite  safely.” 

He  heard  a wooden  bar  lifted  and  dropped ; the  wooden 
door  opened,  and  on  the  threshold,  in  the  warm  glow  of  the 
sunset,  stood  a young  girl  with  a very  beautiful  face,  which 
was  pale  but  resolute  ; a Gainsborough  face,  with  wide- 
opened,  questioning  eyes  and  tumbled  auburn  hair,  of  which 
thick  waves  were  escaping  from  a gipsy-shaped  straw  hat.  A 
gray,  woollen  dress  was  fastened  round  her  waist  by  a leather 
belt ; it  had  been  obviously  made  by  some  simple  country 
seamstress,  but  there  was  an  aristocracy  in  the  look  of  the 


GU1LDER0Y. 


S3 

wearer  which  made  him  feel  that,  whoever  she  might  be,  she 
was  thoroughbred.  She  was  not  nervous  or  agitated,  only 
pale.  She  had  placed  the  fox-cub  on  the  ground  that  she 
might  undo  the  bar  of  the  door,  and  the  little  animal  was 
shivering  and  trembling  behind  her.  She  took  it  up  before 
she  spoke  to  him. 

j “ You  are  sure  they  are  gone?”  she  asked,  looking  out 
across  the  moor. 

“ Perfectly  sure,”  returned  G-uilderoy.  “But,  my  dear 
child,  did  you  not  hear  them?  They  were  inciting  each 
other  to  fire  the  hut.” 

“Oh,  yes,  I heard  them,”  she  replied,  tranquilly.  “I 
think  they  would  have  done  it  too.  They  are  very  rough 
and  savage,  those  Cherriton  people.  It  was  very  kind  of  you 
to  interfere.” 

“ And  what  would  you  have  done  if  I had  been  riding 
another  way,  and  if  the  fellows  had  carried  out  their  word  ? 
You  would  ten  to  one  have  been  burnt  alive.” 

“ Oh,  perhaps,  not,”  she  answered.  “ I daresay  they  would 
not  have  let  me  be  really  burnt,  they  only  wanted  to  frighten 
me.” 

“ And  you  would  have  run  the  risk  rather  than  giva  up 
that  cub  ? ” 

“ Oh,  yes  ! I could  not  have  given  him  up  ; and,  besides, 
I would  never  have  given  in  to  them” 

Guilderoy  bowed  to  her  with  grave  respect. 

“ You  have  a great  courage,  and  you  have  another  quality 
growing  rarer  still — scorn  for  the  mob.” 

She  did  not  reply  to  the  words. 

“ I will  go  now,”  she  said ; “ and  I thank  you  very  much, 
though  I do  not  know  who  you  are.” 

“I  am  a neighbor  of  yours,  I think.  I live  at  Ladysrood.” 
“ Ah,  I heard  them  say,  ‘ It’s  the  lord.’  ” 

She  looked  at  him  with  more  attention  and  interest  than 
before. 

“ Ladysrood  is  such  a beautiful  place  they  aay,”  she  said. 
“ But  you  are  never  there.  Why  are  you  always  away  ? ” 

“ I really  hardly  know,”  he  replied  ; she  seemed  to  him 
too  young  to  be  answered  with  a compliment.  “You  seethe 
English  climate  is  so  detestable.  I dislike  rain,  and  there  is 
scarcely  anything  else  here.” 

“ I do  not  mind  rain  at  all,”  she  said  as  she  left  the  cabin, 
still  clasping  in  her  arms  the  draggled  and  shivering  fox-oub. 

3 


34 


GUILDEROY. 


“ Pray  do  not  come  with  me.  Our  place  is  ten  miles  from 
here.” 

“ Neither  my  horse  nor  I mind  ten  miles,”  replied  Guilde- 
roy, “and  I most  certainly  insist  on  being  allowed  to  attend 
you  to  your  father’s  gates.  Let  me  carry  the  cub  for  you. 
How  is  it  he  is  so  tame  ? ” 

“ They  take  little  foxes  from  their  earths  and  bring  them 
up;  and  then,  when  they  are  a few  months  old,  they  are  car- 
ried out  to  some  waste  place  and  hunted  with  dogs  ; not 
hounds,  you  know,  but  any  kind  of  dog.  I could  tell  this  was 
a tame  cub  by  the  way  it  behaved.  It  did  not  know  how  to 
run  ; and  was  not  even  afraid.  The  young  men  chased  it 
and  lashed  it,  and  threw  pebbles  at  it  to  make  it  run,  but  it 
did  not  know  how.  Then,  when  I saw  that  it  got  behind  a 
stone,  I took  it  up  and  would  not  let  them  have  it,  and  I ran 
as  hard  as  I could,  and  they  ran  after  me.  I got  in  there  just 
in  time  to  bar  the  door.  Men  are  so  mean,”  she  continued, 
with  the  same  scorn  in  her  voice.  “ There  was  a fox — a 
grown  fox — that  the  real  hounds  hunted  last  year,  and  he 
ran  down  to  the  shore  and  took  to  the  sea,  and  swam — oh,  so 
gallantly  ! The  hounds  could  not  get  him  nor  the  hunters  ; 
but  what  do  you  think  some  men  did  who  were  in  a boat, 
and  saw  him  ? They  rowed  so  that  they  crossed  his  path, 
for  he  was  making  for  a tongue  of  land,  and  they  beat  him 
to  death  in  the  sea  with  their  oars — the  cowards  ! That  I 
saw  myself,  for  I was  up  above  on  the  cliffs,  and  I could  not 
do  anything  to  save  him.” 

“Men  are  very  ignoble  ; and  the  new  worship  of  humanity 
has  a beast  for  its  god,”  replied  Guilderoy. 

She  went  on  walking,  holding  the  little  fox  to  her  with 
both  arms.  Guilderoy  walked  beside  her,  with  the  bridle  of 
his  horse  over  his  arm. 

“ But  how  can  your  father  allow  you  to  wander  about  so 
far  all  alone  ? ” he  asked,  looking  at  the  profile  of  his  com- 
panion, and  thinking  of  Bomney’s  Emma  Hamilton,  which  it 
resembled. 

She  laughed  ; a child’s  careless  laughter. 

“I  do  not  think  he  even  knows  I do  roam  about : he  is  so 
much  absorbed  in  books  and  papers.  He  is  so  good  to  me — 
oh,  so  good  ! But  he  would  never  think  to  ask  where  I was 
all  day  ; and,  besides,  the  moors  are  as  safe  as  our  garden. 
Nothing  has  ever  happened  till  to-day;  and  to-day  the 
men  would  not  have  annoyed  me  if  I had  not  taken  away 


GUILDE ROY.  35 

their  cub.  Of  course,  I had  no  business,  really,  to  take  it.” 

“ Why  did  you,  then  ? ” 

“Because  I would  much  sooner  do  wrong — yes,  even  a 
crime,  I think — than  see  any  helpless  little  thing  hurt. 
Would  not  you  ? ” 

“Yes,  I would  certainly;  I like  animals.  They  are  great 
mysteries  : and  men,  instead  of  endeavoring  to  win  their 
way  into  their  closed  souls,  have  only  beaten  the  owners  of 
the  souls  into  captivity.” 

The  girl  paused  a moment,  and  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

“I  like  you  very  much,”  she  said,  with  gravity,  as  a child 
of  five  years  old  might  have  said  it. 

“ I am  exceedingly  pleased,”  said  Guilderoy,  inclined  to 
smile,  for  he  was  adored  and  flattered  by  all  women  of  the 
great  world,  and  used  to  the  most  subtle  compliments,  the 
most  charming  homage.  “ You  have  not  told  me  whom  I 
have  the  honor  of  speaking  to.  May  I ask  what  is  your 
father’s  name  ? ” 

“ Our  name  is  Yernon.  Vernon  of  Llanarth.” 

“Is  it  possible  that  your  father  i3  John  Vernon,  of  Llan- 
arth ? ” he  asked,  in  intense  surprise. 

He  remembered  the  name,  though  vaguely.  When  he  haa 
been  a very  young  man  the  story  of  Vernon  of  Llanarth  had 
been  the  theme  of  society  for  a season.  He  had  forgotten  it 
utterly  for  years  ; now  its  memories  rose  before  him,  shadowy, 
but  full  of  reviving  interest. 

“ Yes  ; he  used  to  be  rich,  but  he  lost  all  his  money.  It  is 
many  years  ago.  I do  not  remember  his  being  rich  at  all. 
You  seem  surprised.  Did  you  never  know  that  we  were  here 
then?  We  are  your  tenants,  I think.” 

“ I know  so  little  of  the  neighborhood.” 

“Yes;  and  my  father  says  it  is  very  wrong  of  you.  He 
says  you  play  into  the  hands  of  democrats  ; that  at  the  Radi- 
cal meetings  in  the  great  towns  they  always  cite  you  as  an 
example  of  those  who  have  all  the  fruits  of  the  land  without 
toiling  for  it  and  take  their  substance  from  the  poor  to  spend 
in  foreign  countries.  Why  do  you  ? ” 

“ I did  not  look  for  a political  lecture,”  said  Guilderoy.  “ I 
am  always  having  one  at  home  from  my  sister,  and  I am 
not  aware  that  1 take  any  substance  from  the  poor.  I believe, 
on  the  contrary,  that  the  poor  are  better  off  on  the  lands  of 
Ladysrood  than  they  are  anywhere  else  in  the  south-west  of 
England.  Is  it  possible  that  your  father  holds  these  opinions  ? 


86  enjiiDERor. 

The  Vernons  were  alwaj^s  Whigs,  but  never  Radicals/ 

“ He  does  not  hold  them.  He  is  sorry  that  anyone  hold# 
them,  and  he  is  sorry  that  the  great  nobles  who  stay  away 
from  their  estates,  as  you  do,  give  agitators  an  excuse  to 
make  the  people  hold  them.” 

“ I am  not  sure  that  my  example  would  be  more  edifying 
if  I lived  on  them.  If  you  will  not  let  me  carry  that  poor 
little  beast  for  you,  will  you  let  me  mount  you  in  my  saddle  ? 
You  are  tired,  though  you  will  not  own  it,  and  you  will  be 
able  to  carry  the  cub  much  more  comfortably  for  himself, 
which  is  no  doubt  the  argument  which  will  have  most  weight 
with  you.” 

It  was  not  easy  to  persuade  her,  but  she  did  at  last  con- 
sent, and  sprang  with  rapidity  on  to  the  horse’s  back,  scarcely 
touching  Guilderoy’s  hand.  He  put  the  little  fox  up  in  the 
saddle  in  front  of  her,  and,  thus  laden,  the  horse  paced  slowly 
over  the  elastic  turf,  his  master  walking  at  his  head. 

a What  a beautiful  child  ! ” thought  Guilderoy,  as  he 
studied  her  features  and  her  form.  She  was  tall  and  lithe, 
and  admirably  made,  like  a young  Diana  ; her  feet  were  small 
and  slim,  her  throat  beautifully  set  upon  her  shoulders,  all 
her  features  were  harmonious,  and  her  eyes  were  so  large 
and  lustrous  that  they  would  have  made  a plain  face  hand- 
some; her  expression  had  a curious  mingling  of  innocence, 
self-will,  candor,  pride,  intelligence,  and  childishness  ; her 
smile  was  like  sunlight,  frank  and  lovely. 

“ In  a year  or  two  she  will  be  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
England ; ” he  thought,  (C  and  what  a fine  character,  too  ! ” 

He  was  not  in  the  habit  of  noticing  young  girls  at  all. 
He  on  the  contrary,  shunned  them.  He  liked  women  who 
amused  him,  who  could  treat  him  depuissance  a puissance 'T 
who  could  bring  into  their  conflicts  with  him  wit,  finesse,  and 
experience.  This  was  the  first  very  young  woman  of  his 
own  rank  at  whom  he  had  ever  seriously  looked,  and  there 
was  something  in  her  which  charmed  and  interested  him. 
The  tranquillity  in  danger  which  she  had  showed,  and  the 
self-possession  and  simplicity  which  were  characteristic  of  her 
manner  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  acme  of  high  breeding, 
whilst  joined  to  them  were  a naivete  and  a childishness  only 
possible  to  one  who  had  led  the  simplest  of  rural  lives,  and 
been  little  amongst  women. 

He  knew  the  name  of  John  Vernon,  though  ever  since  his, 
own  boyhood  it  had  been  unspoken  in  his  world.  He 


GU1LDHR0Y. 


37 


remembered  hearing  what  fine  scholarship,  what  rare  accom- 
plishments, and  what  elegant  dilettanteism  had  vanished  with 
this  man  from  society  when  a total  and  voluntary  loss  of 
fortune  had  sent  him  into  seclusion  and  oblivion,  by  the  world 
forgot  if  not  the  world  forgetting.  And  this  was  his  child — 
it  was  not  wonderful,  he  thought,  if  she  had  rare  and  deli- 
cate excellencies  both  of  form  and  mind. 

“And  have  you  always  lived  here?  and  on  my  land  ? ” 
he  asked  her,  as  he  led  the  horse  along  through  the  golden 
haze  made  by  the  morning  sun. 

“No,  only  ten  years.  We  lived  by  the  sea,  thirty  miles 
away,  first  of  all.  That  is  what  I first  remember.  The  sea 
ran  very  high  one  winter’s  night  and  washed  away  our  house, 
and  my  father  had  only  just  time  to  save  me  and  some  of  the 
books,  I can  recollect  it.  They  woke  me  and  carried  me  out 
wrapped  up  in  the  blankets,  and  I saw  the  great  wall  of  water 
rising  up  above  me  ; and  I heard  the  crash  of  the  house  sink- 
ing ; yes,  I have  never  forgotten  it.  I was  five  years  old.  My 
mother  died  of  the  cold  of  that  night,  and  soon  after  we  came 
to  Christslea.  My  father  likes  it  because  it  is  so  solitary, 
and  has  such  a big  old  garden.  I think  we  pay  you  forty 
pounds  a year  for  it  with  the  orchard.” 

“ I am  shocked  not  to  know  my  tenants.” 

C(  How  should  you  know  any  tenant  when  you  are  never 
here?” 

“ I am  here  sometimes. 

“ Oh,  yes,  when  you  have  a number  of  great  people,  now 
and  then,  once  in  four  years.  Myself,  if  1 had  Ladysrood,  I 
would  live  there  all  the  year  round.” 

“ How  happy  Ladysrood  and  its  master  would  be.” 

The  compliment  made  no  impression  on  her. 

“I  am  as  happy  at  Christslea,”  she  .^answered;  “but  I 
should  like  to  see  your  great  galleries,  and  the  beautiful  ball- 
room with  the  frescoes,  and  that  staircase  with  the  carving 
by  Grinling  Gibbons — it  must  be  an  immense  pleasure  to 
own  a beautiful  old  house.  I have  heard  a great  deal  of 
yours,  though  I have  never  seen  it.” 

“ You  will  now  come  and  see  it  very  often,  will  you  not?  ” 
“ It  is  a long  way  off,  and  I have  no  pony.” 

“ I will  send  you  a team  of  ponies,  or  I will  come  and  fetch 
you  myself.” 

She  laughed  a little. 


38 


GUILDEROY. 


“ You  say  that,  but  you  will  not  do  it,  because  you  always 
go  to  Italy.” 

“ Perhaps  I shall  not  go  to  Italy  this  year.” 

“Then  I will  come  and  see  you,”  said  Gladys  Vernon 
frankly. 

In  such  innocent  interchange  of  speech  they  wended  their 
way  across  the  moor  to  where  the  moors  became  meadow  land 
and  orchard  land,  and  a hilly,  uneven  road  went  up  and  down 
between  high  hedges  of  bilberry  and  briony. 

“ That  is  our  house,”  she  said,  as  she  pointed  to  some 
twisted  chimneys  and  a thatched  roof  rising  above  a tangle 
of  apple  trees,  elder  trees  and  hawthorn  trees.  The  ground 
all  about  was  orchard,  and  the  strong,  sweet  scent  of  the  ripe 
fruit  filled  the  air. 

Guilderoy  stopped  his  horse  at  the  little  wooden  gate 
which  she  had  pointed  out  to  him,  over-topped  with  luxuri- 
ant unclipped  shrubs,  between  tall  privet  hedges. 

“ You  are  safe  now,”  he  said  to  her,  as  she  sprang  down 
from  the  saddle.  “I  will  bid  you  good-day  here,  and  will  call 
on  your  father  later.  Give  him  my  compliments,  and  say 
how  much  I am  indebted  to  the  fox-cub  for  having  led  me  to 
the  knowledge  of  my  tenants.” 

“You  have  been  very  kind,”  said  the  girl,  with  her  hand 
on  the  latch  of  the  wicket. 

“I  have  been  very  fortunate,”  said  Guilderoy;  “but  if 
you  will  allow  me  a parting  word  of  advice,  do  not  wander  so 
far  alone.  It  has  ended  well  this  time,  but  it  might  end 
not  so  well.  You  are  too” — he  was  about  to  say  too  hand- 
some, but  checked  himself,  and  said  instead — “ too  young  to 
roam  about  unattended.  Demos  is  about  everywhere,  you 
know.  By  the  way,  what  will  you  do  with  y6ur  protege,  the 
cub?” 

“ I shall  keep  him  in  the  garden.” 

“ Like  Sir  Rogerley  de  Coverley’s  hares.” 

She  smiled  as  at  the  mention  of  a dear  old  friend. 

She  gave  him  her  hand  with  another  of  those  smiles  which 
made  her  more  than  ever  like  the  Romney,  and  disappeared 
into  the  green  twilight  of  the  untrimmed  garden  ways  be- 
hind the  wicket. 

“What  a charming  child  ! ” he  thought;  “and  she  treats 
me  much  as  she  might  treat  the  old  carrier  who  crosses  the 
moors,  or  the  huckster  who  buys  the  orchard  apples  J ” 


GUILDEROY. 


39 


CHAPTER  V. 

“ Where  have  you  been,  my  dear,  all  these  hours  ? ” 
a voice  asked  from  the  green  twilight  of  the  tangled  boughs 
and  bushes. 

“ That  is  my  father  ! Wait  a moment,”  said  the  girl. 
And  she  pushed  the  branches  aside  and  ran  to  him. 

Guilderoy  heard  her  rapidly  narrating  her  adventure  and 
speaking  of  him  by  name  ; and  in  a few  moments’  time  John 
Vernon  came  through  the  leaves  and  the  shadows.  He  was 
a slight,  well-made  man,  with  a scholar’s  stoop*  in  the  shoul- 
ders, and  a scholar’s  brow  and  eyes ; he  was  very  pale  and 
his  step  was  feeble,  but  he  had  a smile  which  was  infinitely 
engaging  in  its  brightness,  and  there  was  humor,  too,  about 
the  delicate  lines  of  his  mouth ; he  had  once,  like  Ulysses, 
known  well  the  cities  and  the  minds  of  men. 

u My  dear  Lord  Guilderoy,”  he  said,  as  he  stretched  out 
his  hand,  “I  am  infinitely  obliged  to  you  for  having  brought 
home  my  truant.  She  is  growing  much  too  old  to  wander 
like  this,  but  I cannot  get  her  to  believe  it ; and  her  educa- 
tion, in  some  ways,  has  been  sadly  neglected.  Come  in  the 
house — your  house,  by  the  way — and  let  me  understand 
better  what  has  happened.  Gladys  has  gone  to  carry  this 
new  protege  to  the  cow’s  stable.” 

Guilderoy,  won  by  the  tone  of  the  voice  which  addressed 
him,  followed  the  speaker  indoors,  leaving  his  horse  at  the 
gate. 

He  said  something  to  the  effect  that  whatever  the  means 
of  education  the  result  obtained  was  admirable. 

“ You  must  not  say  that,”  replied  her  father,  with  a smile. 
u You  are  very  kind  if  you  think  it,  for  my  poor  little  girl, 
though  she  is  not  unpossessed  of  some  learning,  is  wholly  ig- 
norant of  all  that  a polite  society  requires  in  children  of  her 
age,  and  I make  no  doubt  that  she  treated  you  with  very 
scant  ceremony.  I ought,  you  know,”  he  continued  with  a 
sigh,  “to  send  her  to  my  people  to  be  instructed  in  all  the 
decencies  of  society,  and  be  brought  out  into  the  world.  But 
I hesitate  to  do  so.  The  child  would  be  wretched  amongst  a 


40 


GUILDEROY . 


number  of  distant  relatives.  I am  poor,  as  you  know.  She 
would  have  to  take  the  position  of  a Cinderella,  and  she 
would  not  take  it ; she  is  too  proud,  too  used  to  freedom,  and 
in  her  own  way,  to  sovereignty,  for  she  does  precisely  as  she 
pleases  in  this  cottage.” 

“ She  has  an  admirable  manner,”  said  Guilderoy,  “ only 
such  a manner  as  high  breeding  gives  untaught  Is  it  in- 
deed true  that  I have  the  honor  to  be  your  landlord,  Mr. 
Vernon  ? ” 

“ Quite  true  ; and  we  have  had  your  house  ten  years;  it 
would  not  suit  many  people  because  it  is  so  far  away  from 
civilization,  but  it  does  suit  me  chiefly  for  that  reason.  You 
appear  to  be  very  little  acquainted  with  the  extent  of  your 
property.  It  is  well  that  you  have  so  good  a steward.” 

“ I cannot  think  it  safe  for  her  to  be  alone,”  said  Guilderoy. 
“She  has  not  even  a dog  with  her.  Would  you  allow  me  to 
send  you  a mastiff  or  a deerhound  ? ” 

“ There  is  a dog ; we  have  a fine  one ; but  he  had  lamed 
himself,  and  so  was  not  about  with  her  as  usual.  No ; she 
must  learn  to  stay  within  bounds,  and  pay  the  penalty  of 
losing  the  happy  immunity  of  childhood.  She  will  be  seven- 
teen in  another  month.  It  is  your  luncheon  hour,  I imagine. 
We  are  primitive  people,  and  we  dine  at  this  time.  If  you 
will  stay  I shall  be  very  pleased.  My  old  housekeeper  can 
roast  a capon,  and  I have  some  good  Rhenish  wine  still  to 
offer  you.  JDivitias  miseras .” 

Guilderoy  consented  with  much  more  willingness  than  he 
displayed  to  the  invitations  of  the  great  world. 

The  dining-room  was  a small,  square  plain  room,  which 
had  been  colored  gray  by  a village  plasterer ; but  John  Ver- 
non, in  idle  moods,  had  covered  the  walls  with  classical  figures 
drawn  in  black  and  white,  and  it  had  a look  of  good  taste, 
enhanced  by  the  old  silver  plate  on  the  round  dining-table 
and  the  autumn  flowers  set  in  a gray  Flemish  pot,  which 
filled  the  centre. 

“ When  you  have  only  sixpence  to  spend  you  may  as  well 
buy  a welbmade  thing  as  an  ill-made  thing,”  said  John  Ver- 
non, as  his  guest  complimented  him  ; “ and  if  you  have  only 
Michaelmas  daisies  and  dahlias  to  set  out,  you  may  as  well 
see  that  they  harmonize.” 

He  did  the  honors  of  his  homely  table  with  perfect  grace 
and  simplicity.  His  guest  understood  whence  the  girl  had 
taken  her  high-bred  repose.  The  repast  was  very  simple : 


QtflLDmot. 


41 


a plain  soup,  fish  fresh  from  the  sea,  prawns  stewed  in 
sherry,  and  the  capon  Vernon  had  spoken  of  ; but  he  had 
seldom  enjoyed  any  banquet  better.  The  keen  air  of  the 
moors  had  given  him  an  unwonted  appetite.  Gladys  had 
changed  her  gown  to  a frock  of  white  serge,  and  had  tied 
back  her  abundant  hair  with  a pale  ribbon.  She  spoke  very 
little  in  her  father’s  presence,  but  she  had  so  lovely  a face, 
with  a color  in  her  cheeks  like  that  of  the  wild  rose,  that 
Guilderoy  almost  preferred  her  silence  ; it  became  her  youth  ; 
and  the  reverence  she  showed  her  father  was  touching  and 
uncommon  in  days  when  English  girls  are  chiefly  conspicu- 
ous by  their  insolence  and  their  forwardness.  However 
self-willed  or  high-spirited  she  might  be  to  others,  to  John 
Vernon  she  was  gracefully  deferential  and  submissive  in  an 
unusual  degree. 

He  was  stirred  to  a novel  sympathy  with  this  lonely, 
scholarly  gentleman,  shut  away  from  the  world  under  the 
boughs  of  Somerset  apple  orchards,  and  the  child  who  had 
the  beauty  of  the  Romney  Hamilton  and  the  life  of  a young 
peasant.  Her  personal  beauty  pleased  him  ; the  one  as  much 
as  the  other.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  complications  of 
life  ; she  had  lived  on  these  lonely  moors,  as  Miranda  on  her 
isle,  and  she  had  the  intrepidity  and  the  insouciance  of  a 
Rosalind. 

“ Are  you  never  dull  here  ? ” he  asked  her. 

“ Oh,  never,”  the  child  answered,  with  some  indignation. 
“ There  is  the  garden,  and  the  orchard,  and  I have  a great 
many  books,  and  I have  a boat  all  my  own  down  on  the 
sands.  If  people  are  dull,”  she  added  with  the  happy  cer- 
tainty of  youth,  “they  must  be  stupid  themselves.” 

“ I am  often  dull,”  said  Guilderoy.  “ I do  not  wish  to 
accept  your  theory  of  the  cause  of  it.” 

“ Why  should  you  be  dull  ? Have  you  had  any  misfor- 
tune ? ” 

“One  big  one,  perhaps.” 

“ The  death  of  anyone  ?” 

Her  voice  was  full  of  ready  sympathy. 

“ Oh,  no  ; only  that  I enjoyed  all  things  too  early  and  too 
completely ; a reason  with  which  you  would  have  no  patience, 
even  if  you  could  understand  it,  which  you  could  not.” 

“ My  father  says  when  we  cannot  have  understanding  we 
«hould  at  least  have  indulgence.” 


42 


GUILDEKOY. 


ie  A gentle  doctrine  ; few  practise  it.  Would  you  be  indub 
gent  to  me  ? ” 

“ Gladys  does  not  understand  how  you  can  want  indul- 
gence,” said  John  Vernon.  “ The  lord  of  Ladysrood  seems  to 
her  to  be  higher  and  happier  than  kings.” 

“ When  will  you  bring  her  to  Ladysrood  ? ” 

“We  never  leave  home.” 

“ You  must  make  an  exception  for  me,”  said  Guilderoy, 
as  he  saw  how  the  child’s  face  changed  in  a moment  from 
eager  expectation  to  disappointment. 

“We  are  hermits,”  replied  Vernon.  “I  have  forgotten 
whdt  the  outer  world  is  like,  and  Gladys  has  never  seen  a 
glimpse  of  it.  We  count  time  by  the  blossoming  and  the 
gathering  of  our  rennets  and  king  pippins.  There  are 
more  unpoetical  ways  of  reckoning  its  flight.  I forgot ; we 
have  a sun-dial,  but  it  stands  in  the  shade  and  is  no  use  to 
us,  like  some  people’s  lives  to  their  possessors. 

“ Please  do  not  suggest  discontent  here,”  he  added,  in  a 
low  tone.  It  is  the  curse  of  modern  life.  As  yet  it  has  not 
passed  this  little  wicket,  and  I shall  thank  you  not  to  raise 
the  latch  for  it.” 

“ Forgive  me,”  said  Guilderoy  ; “ I spoke  thoughtlessly. 
I should  indeed  regret  a meeting  which  has  given  me  so  much 
pleasure  if  I were  the  means  of  letting  a snake  creep  into 
your  orchard  grass.” 

He  found  in  his  host  the  most  captivating  of  companions. 
Although  long  self-exiled  from  the  world,  Vernon  had  lost 
none  of  his  interest  in  its  changing  fortunes;  a great  scholar, 
he  yet  had  no  disdain  for  the  topics  of  the  hour,  and  from  his 
solitude  under  the  apple  boughs  of  his  orchard  had  never 
ceased  to  follow  with  keen  eyes  the  movements  and  the  por- 
tents of  the  political  world.  He  was  pleased  to  find  himself 
once  more  in  the  company  of  a man  of  the  world,  and  his  con- 
versation fascinated  and  interested  his  guest  in  no  little  de- 
gree ; it  had  a flavor  as  rare  and  as  pure  as  the  old  wine 
which  he  had  brought  up  from  his  cellar. 

After  dinner  they  sat  awhile  in  the  little  garden  overhung 
with  reddening  leaves  and  full  with  autumnal  blossoms.  The 
sun  had  come  out  and  shone  on  the  warm,  red  brick-work  of 
the  cottage  where  the  thickness  of  the  ivy  parted.  Guilderoy 
was  unwilling  to  take  his  departure ; the  scene  was  novel 
though  simple,  and  his  newly-made  acquaintances  aroused 
his  interest.  Moreover,  John  Vernon  talked  well,  with  a 


GUTLDUROT- 


43 


depth  of  thought,  an  aptness  of  quotation,  and  a freshness  of 
opinion  which  had  its  charm,  and  would  have  had  it  even 
had  his  guest  not  had  always  before  his  eyes  the  picture  of 
Gladys  seated  a little  way  off  on  a beehive  chair,  with  the 
head  of  the  lame  dog  leaning  fondly  against  her  knee.  With 
reluctance  he  left  Christslea  as  the  clock  in  the  church  tower 
half  a mile  off  tolled  four. 

He  was  pleased,  interested,  and  angered  with  himself  that 
such  a man  should  have  been  resident  on  his  own  lands  so 
long  and  wholly  unknown  to  and  unnoticed  by  him.  As  he 
rode  through  the  cold,  dusky  shadows  of  the  moors,  fitfully 
lighted  by  a moon  which  played  at  hide-and-seek  with  the 
clouds,  he  saw  always  before  him  the  child’s  face  of  Gladys 
Vernon,  with  its  brilliant,  resolute  eyes,  which  grew  so  soft 
when  she  looked  at  her  father. 

“ Since  I must  marry,  why  not  marry  her  ?”  he  thought 
with  a complex  impulse,  made  up  half  of  physical  attraction 
and  half  of  a higher  admiration. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Guilderoy  made  a brief  apology  to  his  sister  for  being  so 
late,  and  sat  down  to  dinner ; throughout  it  he  was  silent 
and  abstracted.  When  the  coffee  had  been  brought  and  the 
servants  had  withdrawn,  he  said  abruptly,  as  he  walked  up 
and  down  the  room : 

“ You  say  a woman  is  wanted  in  this  house.  Well,  I have 
seen  one  whom  I shall  marry.” 

* Good  heavens  ! ” cried  Lady  Sunbury  as  she  rose  from 
her  chair  in  the  intensity  of  her  amazement. 

“ At  least  she  is  a child,”  he  added. 

“ A child  ! I suppose  you  mean  some  jest.  I am  so  stupid 
that  I cannot  guess  the  point  of  it.,; 

“Ho;  lam  not  joking  at  all.  I have  seen  a perfectly 
beautiful  person  whom  I am  disposed  to  marry.  I imagined 
that  you  would  be  pleased/'  replied  Guilderoy,  which  showed 
that,  despite  his  experience  in  women,  he  knew  but  little  of 
their  characters. 

“ Good  heavens  ! ” cried  Lady  Sunbury  again.  “ Is  it  9 
turf-cutter’s  daughter,  or  one  of  the  gypsies  ? ” 


44 


GVILDEROY. 


“No  ; it  is  neither.  Do  not  alarm  yourself.  She  is  the 
daughter  of  John  Vernon — a very  nohle  gentleman  who  has 
been  living  here  ten  years  without  my  knowing  it." 

“ As  you  never  take  the  trouble  to  visit  your  neighbors — 

“ I shall  visit  one  neighbor  to-morrow  and  take  you  with 
me." 

“ Good  heavens  ! 99  said  Lady  Sunbury  a third  time.  “You 
actually  speak  as  if  you  were  serious  ! ’9 

“ I am  quite  serious/' 

He  proceeded  to  tell  her  the  story  of  the  fox-cub  and  the 
*abin. 

She  listened  with  astonishment  in  her  eyes  mingled  with 
« look  of  strong  censure.  She  saw  nothing  but  absurdity  in 
it.  She  was  a courageous  woman  and  a humane  one,  but 
neither  quality  as  evinced  in  the  narrative  touched  her.  It 
seemed  to  her  high-flown,  idiotic,  altogether  in  bad  taste. 

“ Girls  who  live  with  their  fathers  alone  always  run  so  wild 
and  become  so  queer,"  she  said,  when  he  had  ended  his  tale* 
It  was  the  only  remark  which  she  considered  it  called  for 
from  her. 

Guilderoy  laughed,  with  some  sense  of  anger. 

“ What  ill-natured  things  a woman  always  contrives  to 
say!  I should  have  thought  the  fine  courage  of  the  child 
would  have  pleased  you." 

“ I suppose  she  is  pretty  ? " she  inquired  stiffly  and  with 
significance. 

He  laughed  again. 

“She  i§  very  handsome,"  he  answered.  “You  will  see  her 
to-morrow.  We  will  go  over  to  Ghristslea." 

“How  very  impetuous  }mu  are!  One  would  think  you 
were  a boy  of  eighteen  ! " 

“ It  is  delightful  to  be  stirred  to  impetuosity.  It  is  a relic 
of  youth.  I feel  very  young  since  five  o'clock  this  evening." 

“ It  is  really  intolerable  ! " said  Lady  Sunbury  ; she  could 
not  yet  bring  herself  to  believe  that  he  was  in  earnest. 

“ You  must  remember  the  story  of  Vernon  of  Llanarth 
better  than  I,  since  you  are  older  than  I.  You  were  in  the 
world  at  the  time  and  I was  a boy." 

“ I have  no  recollection,"  said  his  sister  coldly,  annoyed  at 
the  allusion  to  her  increasing  years. 

“You  will  have,  if  you  think  a moment.  He  was  a very 
clever  and  popular  man,  a great  scholar,  and  rich — all  the 
family  are  rich — and  he  gave  up  everything  he  possessed, 


GUILDEROY, 


45 


wholly,  voluntarily,  and  with  magnificent  magnanimity,  to 
dower  the  widows  and  orphans  of  four  hundred  men  who 
were  drowned  by  an  underground  river  bursting  into  a coal 
mine  which  he  possessed  in  South  Wales.  He  considered 
that  he  had  been  to  blame  in  never  visiting  a property  which 
was  on  a portion  of  his  lands,  and  that  if  he  had  given  more 
personal  attention  to  it  his  engineers  and  superintendents 
would  have  been  more  vigilant,  and  the  catastrophe  might 
not  have  occurred,  as  the  weakness  of  the  side  next  the  river 
would  have  been  known  and  provided  for.  The  mine  itself 
was  totally  destroyed,  of  course — an  immense  loss  to  him : 
and  he  gave  up  all  the  rest  of  his  fortune  to  provide  for  over 
a thousand  helpless  people.  Everyone  called  him  a madman  ; 
but  neither  the  world  nor  his  family  changed  his  intentions. 
He  disappeared  from  society,  and  has  maintained  himself  ever 
since,  I believe,  by  writing  for  scientific  and  historical  re- 
views and  other  learned  works.  When  I heard  his  name  I 
remembered  the  generosity  and  quixotism  of  an  action  which 
I very  much  admired  in  my  boyhood.” 

..“It  was  no  more  than  his  duty,”  remarked  Lady  Sunbury, 
coldly,  when  his  enthusiasm  was  spent. 

“ And  how  many  of  us  do  our  duty  ? ” said  Guilderoy. 
“ And  is  it  not  always  easy  to  find  sophistries  which  will 
relieve  us  of  it  ? I do  not  believe  either  that  it  was  any- 
thing so  cold  as  a sense  of  duty;  it  was  a gentleman’s 
instinct  to  suffer  anything  rather  than  let  others  suffer 
through  him.” 

The  heritage  of  such  fine  and  sensitive  honor  as  Vernon’s 
seemed  to  Guilderoy  the  richest  dower  that  any  young  girl 
could  bring  with  her  to  any  race  ; and  he  said  so  with  some 
vehemence  and  reproach. 

“ You  are  always  Athenian  in  knowing  what  is  right,” 
said  Lady  Sunbury,  dryly.  “Certainly  you  would  be  the 
fast  man  on  earth  to  do  anything  in  any  way  similar.” 

“ I do  not  presume  to  pretend  that  I should.  But  if  there 
6e  one  thing  which  I admire  more  than  another,”  said  Guil- 
deroy, angrily,  “it  is  men  who  sacrifice  themselves  to  what 
they  consider  the  duties  of  property.  John  Vernon  did  it ; 
Aubrey  does  it ; I do  not  do  it  because  I have  neither  the 
force  of  character  nor  the  strength  of  belief  which  would 
move  me  to  do  it.  But  I admire  it ; and  when  I saw  John 
Vernon  to-day,  I saw  a hero.” 

“Because  the  hero  h*s  a good-looking  daughter ! ” 


46 


GU1LLER0Y. 


“ What  a disagreeable  person  you  can  be^  Hilda ! ” 

“ When  I do  not  flatter  you.” 

“ No.  I detest  flattery;  when  you  throw  cold  water  on 
any  rare  enthusiasm  which  may  be  fortunate  enough  to 
revive  in  one’s  chilled  soul.” 

“ You  are  generally  enthusiastic  when  you  have  seen  a 
new  face  which  pleases  you  for  the  moment.” 

“Here  it  was  courage  that  pleased  me  quite  as  much  as 
beauty. 

“He  has  been  here  ten  years,  and  the  cottage  is  rented  at 
forty  pounds,”  continued  Guilderoy  with  anger  at  himself. 
“ He  must  have  paid  me  actually  four  hundred  pounds ! 
Good  heavens  ! A man  to  whom  I should  have  been  charmed 
and  honored  to  give  the  best  estate  that  I possess  rent 
free ! ” 

“Many  things  may  happen  on  our  properties  that  we 
regret,  if  we  never  inquire  into  what  is  done  on  them,”  said 
his  sister  coldly. 

“Pray  spare  me  a sermon;  I had  one  yesterday  from 
Aubrey,  and  one  from  this  child  to-day.  After  all,  Mr. 
Vernon  would  certainly  not  consent  to  live  rent  free  however 
much  I wished  it;  and  had  I been  aware  he  was  there,  per- 
haps he  would  not  have  stayed.  He  will  know  no  one,  they 
say.” 

“ All  is  for  the  best,  no  doubt,”  said  Lady  Sunbury  in  a 
tone  which  strongly  suggested  the  contrary.  “If  he  had 
known  the  country  people  like  a reasonable  being,  his 
daughter  would  not  have  been  likely  to  interest  you  by  her 
adventures.” 

When  the  morning  came  she  declined  to  go  to  Christslea. 

“ Whatever  follies  he  may  commit  now  or  hereafter,  they 
shall  not  have  my  countenance,”  she  said  to  herself  in  that 
spirit  of  which  women  of  her  character  consider  the 
display  to  be  due  to  their  dignity  and  their  families.  Guild- 
eroy restrained  a passionate  inclination  to  use  the  same 
language  to  her  that  her  husband  did,  and  went  over  to 
Christslea  alone. 

Lady  Sunbury  remained  at  home,  having  done  what  pru- 
dence and  dignity  required  of  her.  Yet  she  had  an  uneasy 
consciousness  that  more  real  prudence,  if  less  dignity,  might 
have  been  shown  in  accompanying  her  brother. 

She  might  have  prevented  or  mitigated  some  folly.  Anx- 
iety and  apprehension  made  her  restless,  and  she  wandered 


GUILDEIIOY . 


47 

in  a desultory  manner,  wholly  unlike  her  usual  energy  and 
decision,  to  and  fro  through  the  great  house  which  had  been 
her  birthplace,  from  whose  future  mistress,  whosoever  she 
might  be,  she  would  exact  such  superhuman  and  innumerable 
virtues. 

She  could  not  believe,  seriously,  that  Guilderoy  would 
make  himself  so  utterly  absurd  as  he  had  threatened,  and 
yet  intimate  knowledge  of  his  character  had  told  her  that  on 
occasion  he  could  be  capable  of  dangerous  and  incredible 
coups  de  tete  / a weakness  inherited  from  the  warm  Gascon 
blood  of  his  mother’s  race. 

Indolent,  nonchalant,  and  easily  swayed  as  he  was  usually, 
he  became  at  such  moments  both  strong-willed  and  deaf  to 
all  argument  and  persuasion. 

“ Any  woman  who  has  to  pass  her  life  with  him  will  need 
the  wisdom  of  the  serpent  and  the  gentleness  of  the  dove,” 
she  thought^  mournfully,  conscious  that  remarkably  few 
women  ever  possess  either. 

Lady  Sunbury  never  perceived  why  it  was  that  she  utterly 
failed  herself  to  influence  the  men  belonging  to  her  : but  she 
had  much  perception  into  the  character  of  other  women,  and 
she  saw  clearly  enough  the  causes  of  their  failures. 

Meanwhile  she  passed  the  forenoon  pacing  up  and  down 
the  numerous  galleries  and  salons  of  Ladysrood. 

In  the  middle  of  the  morning  she  sent  for  the  land  steward, 
and  interrogated  him  as  to  the  occupants  of  Christslea. 

All  that  he  told  her  only  served  to  make  her  more  angry, 
because  it  made  the  quixotic  folly  of  Guilderoy  assume  a more 
possible  shape.  She  heard  that  John  Yernon  was  of  irre- 
proachable character  if  of  eccentric  habits,  and  that  the 
causes  of  his  poverty  were  of  the  highest  honor  to  him. 

“ There  is  a child,  is  there  not — a daughter  ? ” she  asked. 

“ There  is.  I have  seen  her  occasionally.  She  promises 
to  be  very  handsome,”  replied  the  steward,  wondering 
whither  these  questions  tended. 

“ But  very  odd,  is  she  not  ? ” 

“Not  more  so  than  any  young  girl  must  be  who  is  educat- 
ed by  a recluse,  and  deprived  of  all  the  natural  umusements 
and  companionships  of  her  age  and  sex.” 

“ I understand,”  said  Lady  Sunbury,  with  a shudder. 

She  could  see  the  girl  exactly  as  she  was  : a wild  creature 
without  gloves,  her  brain  filled  very  likely  with  godless  phil- 
osophies, and  her  hair  never  properly  brushed  ] handsome,  n<? 


48 


QTJILDEROY. 


doubt,  or  Guilderoy  would  never  have  looted  at  her  or 
thought  twice  about  her,  but  untrained,  imprudent  and  irre- 
ligious. 

Guilderoy  meanwhile  was  riding  through  the  woods  and 
across  the  moorland  to  the  modest  residence  of  John  Vernon. 

He  was  so  possessed  with  one  idea,  one  desire,  that  the 
folly  of  his  errand  altogether  failed  to  occur  to  him  ; the  pos- 
sibility of  its  end  being  disappointment  and  dismissal  never 
passed  through  his  mind.  All  his  life  women  had  taught 
him  and  told  him  that  the  offer  of  his  hand  would  be  a favor 
which  could  only  be  met  by  the  most  ardent  gratitude.  It 
was  not  vanity  which  moved  him,  but  the  sense  that  he  had 
a great  gift  to  give,  and  one  which  no  living  woman  would 
reject. 

As  he  rode  his  thoughts  grew  fervid,  and  his  imagination 
heated;  he  saw  ever  before  him  the  face  of  Gladys  Vernon, 
and  a thousand  excited  emotions  rose  in  him  as  he  rode 
through  the  brilliant  wind-moved  autumn  air. 

He  was  certainly  about  to  commit  an  unspeakable  absurd- 
ity in  offering  his  whole  future  to  a child  whom  he  had  seen 
but  once  the  day  before.  But  the  absurdity  of  his  inten- 
tions did  not  strike  him — he  was  too  enamored  of  the  poetry 
and  romance  of  them — and  the  opposition  of  his  sister  had 
stimulated  him  to  a promptness  of  action  far  from  common 
to  an  indolent  and  undecided  temperament. 

When  he  sent  in  his  card  at  Christslea  he  was  at  one© 
ushered  into  the  back  study,  which  John  Vernon  used:  a 
small  room  made  dusky  by  the  ivy  which  shrouded  the  win- 
dow, and  with  books  lying  five  or  six  deep  on  the  floor,  while 
crowded  bookcases  lined  each  of  the  four  walls. 

“ This  is  very  kind  to  come  so  soon  again  to  a solitary,” 
said  Mr.  Vernon  with  his  pleasant  smile. 

Guilderoy  pressed  his  hand  and  answered  without  any  pre- 
face whatever. 

“ It  is  you  who  will,  I hope,  be  kind  to  me.  My  dear  sir, 
I come  to  beg  from  you  the  honor  of  your  daughter’s  hand  in 
marriage.” 

“ What ! Good  God,  are  you  out  of  your  mind  ? ” cried 
John  Vernon.  He  fell  backward  a few  paces  and  stared  at 
his  visitor  with  the  blank  stupidity  of  a bewildered  and  in- 
credulous amazement;  he  had  always  heard  that  his  neighbor 
of  Ladysrood  was  capricious  and  eccentric.  Was  he  left 
now,  he  asked  himself,  in  the  presence  of  a madman  ? 


GUILDEROY. 


4& 

“It  is  not  complimentary  either  to  her  or  to  me  that  you 
should  be  so  greatly  astonished,”  said  Guilderoy  with  annoy- 
ance. “Allow  me  to  repeat  my  words.  I have  come  over 
this  morning  to  solicit  the  honor  of  your  daughter’s  hand. 
My  position  is  known  to  you,  and  on  my  character,  though  it 
might  not  satisfy  precisians,  you  will  not  find  any  very  seri- 
ous stain.  I venture  to  think  that  my  proposals  may  not  be 
altogether  intolerable  to  you.” 

“It  is  not  that,”  said  John  Yernon,  still  breathless.  “It 
is — it  is — the  child  is  a child — she  is  not  of  marriageable 
years — she  is  a baby — and  good  heavens  ! you  have  only 
seen  her  for  ten  minutes,  yesterday.  My  dear  Lord  Guilde- 
roy, if  this  he  not  a joke ; if  it  be  not  part  of  some  comedy, 

of  some  enigma  to  which  I have  not  the  key ” 

“Can  you  suppose  that  I should  insult  you  by  jests  on 
such  a subject  ? I was  never  more  serious  in  my  life.” 
“Then  I must  gratefully  and  respectfully  decline  the 
honor  you  propose  to  do  myself  and  my  daughter,”  replied 
John  Vernon  with  the  tone  and  air  of  a person  who  closes  a 
subject  which  cannot  be  reopened. 

“ Why  ? ” asked  Guilderoy,  coldly. 

“Why  ? ” — Vernon  repeated  the  work  in  vague  bewilder- 
ment. “ Why  ? Why,  I have  a thousand  reasons.  I have 
said  she  is  the  merest  child.  She  knows  nothing  of  you; 
you  know  nothing  of  her.  How  can  you  ask  me  why  ? My 
dear  lord,  it  is  a kind  of  insanity.  I may  appear  discourte- 
ous and  ungrateful  in  declining  your  overtures  so  abruptly, 
but  it  is  in  truth  a question  which  does  not  bear  discussion.” 
“ Every  question  bears  discussion  if  it  carries  no  insult 
with  it,  and  you  cannot  consider  that  my  desires  insult  you,” 
replied  Guilderoy,  who  controlled  his  temper  with  effort. 

“ Insult  ? — no,  I am  sure  you  do  not  mean  it  as  that,” 
said  Vernon  infinitely  amazed,  troubled,  and  annoyed.  “But 
the  mere  idea  is  intolerable,  insane,  preposterous.  You  were 
kind  to  a child  yesterda}^  and  this  morning  you  wish  to 
marry  her.  Good  God ! it  is  only  a few  months  ago  that 
she  was  a baby  playing  with  a toy  lamb.  My  dear  Lord 
Guilderoy,  if  indeed  you  are  serious,  this  is  midsummer 
madness.  You  have  eaten  of  the  drug  of  Love  in  Idleness, 
and  Titania  and  her  crew  have  played  with  jmu.  Go  home 
and  laugh  at  your  freak  to-morrow,  and  thank  the  Bates  that 
I am  not  a man  to  take  you  at  your  word  and  keep  you  to  it. 
Good  day.” 


50 


GUILDEROY. 


u I shall  not  go  away  until  I have  received  from  you  such 
answer  as  I wish,”  replied  Guilderoy.  The  unlooked-for  op* 
position  fanned  his  new  desires  into  double  warmth. 

“ As  a visitor  you  are  most  welcome  to  my  house,  but  it  is 
the  only  welcome  I can  give  to  you,”  replied  Yernon.  “ I 
doubt  my  own  senses  when  I think  of  the  things  you  have 
said,  of  the  amazing  errand  on  which  you  have  come  here.  I 
still  feel  as  if  it  must  be  only  in  jest  that  you  are  speaking; 
some  jest  of  which  I am  as  yet  too  stupid  to  see  the  point.” 

“ My  dear  sir,”  said  Guilderoy  impatiently,  “ you  think  me 
very  ill-bred  if  I could  possibly  presume  to  jest  on  such  a 
subject.  I have  never  seen  any  one  marriageable  whom  I 
admire  so  much  as  I admire  your  daughter,  and  I told  my 
sister  last  evening  that  I should  come  here  to  solicit  her 
hand  in  all  seriousness.” 

“ Her  hand ! She  is  a baby  I tell  you.  A little  rustic.  A 
mere  country  mouse,  with  not  a penny  to  her  fortune.” 

“ The  daughter  of  Mr.  Yernon,  of  Llanarth,  has  one  heri- 
tage at  least  which  kings  might  envy,”  said  Guilderoy  with 
his  courtliest  grace  and  an  accent  of  reverent  sincerity. 

“ 1 thank  you,”  said  Yernon  with  some  emotion. 

He  had  never  supposed  that  anyone  remembered  an  act 
which  had  always  seemed  to  him  very  simple  and  always 
absolutely  enjoined  by  duty  and  honor. 

“ But  there  is  nothing  more  for  me  to  do,”  he  added,  u than 
in  all  seriousness  to  reply  that  I must  with  regret  decline  the 
honor  of  the  alliance  which  you  propose  to  me.” 

The  face  of  Guilderoy  flushed  with  anger  and  offence. 

“ I repeat  that  you  cannot  refuse  to  allege  your  reasons,  at 
least.” 

“ Certainly  not : they  are  simple  and  obvious.  The  child  is 
too  young,  and  you  are  a stranger  to  us  both.” 

66  If  these  be  your  only  reasons  they  are  both  defects  which 
time  will  cure,  if  you  will  allow  me  the  privilege  of  intimacy 
here.” 

John  Yernon,  vexed,  perplexed,  and  uncertain  how  to  reply 
to  so  much  persistency,  drew  lines  with  a paper-knife  on  the 
blotting-paper  before  him  and  was  silent.  He  did  not  approve 
of  what  he  had  heard  of  the  lord  of  Ladysrood  ; the  various 
stories  of  the  country  side  depicted  Guilderoy  as  strange, 
capricious,  and  negligent  of  the  duties  of  his  station ; but,  on 
the  other  hand,  he  was  admired  and  esteemed  in  that  great 
world  which  John  Vernon  had  once  known  so  well,  and  no 


GUILDEROY . 


51 


graver  sins  than  those  of  caprice  and  self-indulgence  had  ever 
been  attributed  to  him  ; he  might  have  been  a voluptuary,  but 
he  had  always  been  a man  of  honor.  It  was  difficult  to  reject 
such  a suitor,  and  yet  he  was  wholly  determined  to  reject  him 
in  exorably. 

“Give  him  Gladys  !”  he  thought  ; “why,  he  would  tire  of 
her  in  three  days ! ” 

“ I know  what  you  are  thinking,”  said  Guilderoy  abruptly. 
“You  are  thinking  that  I should  treat  her  ill.  I should  not; 
I do  not  treat  women  ill  even  when  they  annoy  and  weary 
me.  There  is  not  a woman  living  who  could  complain  of  my 
want  of  regard  for  her  even  when  she  had  lost  all  power  to 
please  me.  On  your  daughter  I will  make  any  settlement 
that  you  please,  and  place  it  entirely  out  of  my  power  to  in- 
jure her  were  I inclined ” 

“ To  injure  her  materially — yes  ; I do  not  fear  that  you 
would  ever  do  that.  But  there  are  so  many  things  that  none 
can  promise  to  do  or  not  to  do  ; we  may  control  our  actions 
but  we  cannot  control  our  feelings,  and  we  often  make  others 
unspeakably  wretched  through  no  fault  whatever  of  our  own. 
Against  the  wounds  of  the  affections  no  possible  guarantee 
can  be  ever  given  ; the  laws  of  marriage  are  constructed  on 
the  absurd  idea  that  it  is  possible  to  do  so,  and  that  is  why 
marriage  is  the  almost  universal  failure  that  we  see  it  is.  But 
you  do  not  want  a disquisition,  you  want  an  answer.  My 
dear  lord,  I can  only  repeat  what  I said  before,  that  I thank 
you  for  the  compliment  you  pay  me,  that  I apologize  to  you 
if  astonishment  make  me  appear  discourteous,  but  that  what 
you  wish  is  wholly  and  forever  impossible.” 

Guilderoy  rose  and  bowed  with  a faint  smile. 

“ Forever  is  a large  word.  You  tempt  me  to  deceive  and 
to  defy  you,  and  to  endeavor  to  make  what  I wish  wished 
also  by  your  daughter  against  your  wish.  You  refuse  me  ; 
but  you  could  not  refuse  her.” 

John  Vernon  looked  up  startled  and  impatient. 

“ You  mean  that  you  will  make  love  to  the  child  unknown 
to  me  ? It  is  possible.  Ghe  is  not  a prisoner.  But  I doubt 
very  much  if,  with  all  your  power  over  her  sex  and  your  ex- 
perience of  them,  you  would  be  able  to  persuade  her  to  have 
any  secret  whatever  from  me.” 

“ Why  force  me  to  try  then  ? ” said  Guilderoy.  “ I come 
to  you  in  all  openness  and  fairness.  If  you  will  let  me  visit 
you  on  the  footing  of  friendship,  I will  take  no  advantage  of 


52 


GUILDEBOT , 


it  without  your  knowledge  and  concurrence.  But  1 shall 
hope,  of  course,  in  time  to  convert  you — and  her — to  my 
views.” 

John  Vernon  threw  his  paper  knife  down  with  a roughness 
rare  in  so  gentle  a person  and  walked  to  the  window.  In  a 
few  moments  he  returned  to  his  visitor. 

“ I suppose  it  must  be  as  you  wish,”  he  said,  unwillingly. 
“ But  give  me  your  word  that  if  I admit  you  here  you  will 
take  no  advantage  of  it ; that  you  will  not  see  the  child  out 
of  my  presence.” 

“ I promise  that,”  replied  Guilderoy.  And  he  was  hirm 
self  astonished  at  the  sudden  intensity  and  warmth  which 
his  own  desires  had  obtained  from  the  fanning  wind  of  opposi- 
tion. 

“ I am  perfectly  certain  that  you  will  not  keep  in  the 
same  inclination,”  added  Vernon.  “ It  is  wildly  improbable 
that  you  should  do  so,  and  I cannot  permit  the  mind  of  as 
young  a girl  as  Gladys  to  be  disturbed  by  ideas  of  which  she 
has  no  more  thought  at  present  than  any  one  of  the  red  deer 
fawns  on  your  moorlands.  I am  sure  you  will  understand 
that  I should  prefer  that  you  dismissed  this  strange  fancy 
altogether  from  your  own  mind,  and  accepted  once  and  for 
all  my  rejection  of  your  proposals  ; but,  if  you  will  not  do 
that,  all  I can  admit  is  that  you  should  come  here  occasion- 
ally as  my  landlord  and  neighbor  without  allowing  the  child 
to  have  any  suspicion  of  any  ulterior  motive  in  your  visits.” 

“ Your  stipulations  are  humiliating,”  said  Guilderoy,  “but 
I suppose  I must  accept  them.” 

He  was  amused  despite  his  annoyance  at  the  unwillingness 
with  which  his  proposals  were  received.  No  one  else  in  all 
the  world,  he  thought,  would  have  failed  to  accept  them  with 
ardor  and  gratitude.  John  Vernon’s  attitude  moved  him  to 
respect  and  esteem.  Here  was  at  least  one  man  to  whom  the 
good  things  and  the  great  ones  of  the  world  were  as  dross. 

He  left  Christslea  a few  moments  later  without  seeking  te 
see  Gladys  that  day. 


GUILDEROY. 


53 


CHAPTER  VIL 

When  he  met  Lady  Sunbury  in  the  small  Queen  Anne 
drawing-room  before  dinner  she  was  infinitely  too  proud  and 
too  offended  to  ask  him  any  questions,  though  inquisitiveness 
and  anxiety  were  never  so  strained,  well-nigh  to  bursting,  in 
the  breast  of  woman.  Guilderoy,  however,  did  not  keep  her 
very  long  in  suspense. 

“ You  will  be  very  glad  for  me  to  pass  the  winter  here  in- 
stead of  in  Italy/7  he  said,  as  he  took  his  cup  of  tea.  “ That 
is  what  I am  going  to  do.77 

Lady  Sunbury  was  not  glad.  Human  nature  is  full  of  con- 
tradictions. 

“ You  will  never  pass  the  winter  here,77  she  said,  with  some 
violence.  “ Never.  For  you  will  never  keep  in  the  same 
mood  or  the  same  mind  for  two  weeks  ! 77 

“ I shall  keep  in  this,77  he  answered.  “ And  you  will 
oblige  me  very  much  if  you  will  drive  over  to  Christslea  to- 
morrow. John  Vernon  is  quite  a respectable  person,  though 
he  has  lost  all  his  money  ; indeed,  more  respectable  perhaps, 
than  if  he  had  multiplied  it.77 

“And  why  should  I call  on  Mr.  Vernon?77  said  Lady 
Sunbury,  holding  a feather  screen  between  her  and  the  wood 
fire,  with  an  unamiable  and  ominous  look  upon  her  high, 
straight,  delicate  features. 

“ Only  because  it  is  usual  in  the  conventional  state  of  the 
world  to  do  that  sort  of  thing,77  said  Guilderoy,  carelessly  ; 
“ and  I shall  marry  his  daughter  in  February : I told  you  last 
night  that  I should  do  so.77 

His  sister  was  silent  for  a few  moments.  Her  lips  turned 
pale  with  rage. 

“ And  I do  not  even  know  her  ! 77  she  said,  in  a suffocated 
voice. 

“ Really  that  is  no  one’s  fault  but  yours,77  said  Guilderoy. 
“ I asked  you  to  drive  there  this  morning  and  you  refused.  I 
do  not  know  her  very  much  myself.77 

“ You  must  be  mad  ! 77 

“So  Mr.  Vernon  said,  but  I believe  not;  of  course,  one 


54 


GUILDEEOY. 


can  never  be  quite  sure.  There  are  insidious  lessons  in  the 
brain  which  do  not  declare  themselves.  Many  statesmen’s 
actions  which  appear  unaccountable  are  really  caused  by  un- 
suspected protognosis ■” 

Lady  Sunbury  interrupted  him  passionately. 

“ Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  with  all  this  fooling,  that  you 
are  about  to  enter  on  the  most  serious  act  of  your  life  with 
less  consideration  than  you  would  show  in  buying  a dog  ? ” 

“ It  is  not  so  very  serious,”  murmured  G-uilderoy.  “ It 
used  to  be  thought  so  in  old-fashioned  days,  but  not  now.” 

“ Do  you  mean  that  you  marry  only  to  abandon  your  wife 
in  a week  ? ” 

“ Mr.  Vernon  said  three  days.  Nobody  abandons  their 
wife  nowadays,  I think,  except  working-men  who  empty  the 
savings  out  of  the  tea-caddy  and  go  off  to  Australia.” 

“ It  Mr.  Vernon,  whatever  else  he  be,  is  a man  of  the 
slightest  sense,  he  will  forbid  so  abnormal,  so  unnatural,  so 
insensate  a folly.” 

“Mr.  Vernon  has  all  the  will  in  the  world  to  forbid  it;  but 
his  power  is  not  equal  to  his  will.” 

“ What ! Does  he  feel  no  gratitude,  no  sense  of  honor  re- 
ceived, no  consciousness  of  the  immense  compliment  you  pay 
him  ? ” 

“ You  are  exacting.  You  desire  him  at  once  to  be  servile 
and  furious.  He  was  neither.  He  had  an  admirable  manner, 
for  which  I respect  him,  and  a very  slight  opinion  of  myself, 
with  which  I do  not  quarrel.  My  dear  Hilda,  do  not  force 
me  to  quarrel  with  you . It  would  be  so  much  to  be  re- 
gretted. I abhor  dissensions,  and  if  they  are  forced  on  me  I 
do  not  very  soon  forget  them.  If  a man,  well-born  and  well- 
bred,  has  a charming  child,  who  is  both  lovely  and  innocent, 
he  would  surely  not  be  guilty  of  the  intolerable  vulgarity  of 
thinking  her  the  inferior  of  any  suitor  who  could  present 
himself.  What  I desire  to  do  may  be,  as  you  say,  an  insen- 
sate folly.  Very  possibly  it  is,  and  that  I shall  tell  you  so 
one  day,  when  you  will  have  the  only  mortal  happiness  which 
never  palls — the  pleasure  of  being  in  the  right.  But  at 
present  leave  me  to  my  illusions.  You  may  be  quite  sure 
they  will  not  last  long.  You  have  never  approved  of  my 
ways  of  life.  You  probably  never  will  approve  of  them, 
whether  I take  the  paths  of  virtue  or  the  paths  of  vice.” 
Lady  Sunbury  sat  silent,  pale,  and  stern.  She  would  at 
all  times  with  any  other  person  pour  out  in  pitiless  crescendo 


GUILDEROY. 


S5 


the  most  bitter  and  violent  reproaches,  and  bear  off  the  tri- 
umph of  the  last  word  at  any  cost.  But  with  Guilderoy  she 
was  conscious  there  were  limits  which  she  could  not  pass 
and  retain  his  affection ; that  a quarrel,  if  forced  upon  him, 
would  have  no  reconciliation  possible  summoned  in  its  train. 
The  sense  of  that  certainty  restrained  her  bitterest  words, 
for  in  her  own  manner  she  loved  him  almost  more  than  she 
loved  the  sons  that  she  had  borne. 

“ Of  course  it  is  all  a jest,”  she  said,  with  much  self-control, 
as  she  rose  and  moved  away  ; but  her  lips  quivered  with  an- 
ger and  her  eyes  were  dark  with  it. 

“ Not  in  the  least  a jest,”  replied  Guilderoy ; but  he  said 
it  carelessly,  and  did  not  pursue  the  theme,  which  was  men- 
tioned no  more  between  them  that  evening. 

In  the  morning  Lady  Sunbury  received  her  letters  in  her 
own  room ; there  was  nothing  of  the  very  smallest  importance 
in  them.  They  consisted  of  circulars,  petitions,  political 
gossip,  with  a little  note  from  one  of  her  sons  at  Eton  asking 
for  fifty  pounds  ; but  they  sufficed  her  for  an  excuse  and  she 
sent  word  to  her  brother  that  she  was  extremely  sorry  that 
news  had  reached  her  that  morning  which  would  oblige  her 
to  go  home  at  once,  taking  London  on  her  way. 

“ I am  extremely  sorry  too,”  Guilderoy  wrote  on  a slip  of 
paper.  “ But  you  know  I always  wish  you  to  please  your- 
self.” 

And  she  went  at  noonday. 

“ I wonder  you  have  not  more  curiosity,”  he  said  with  a 
smile,  as  he  bade  her  farewell  on  the  steps  of  the  terrace. 

She  deigned  to  give  no  reply.  But  she  had  not  gone 
many  miles  upon  her  homeward  way  before  she  became  con- 
scious of  how  utterly  her  usually  ever-present  wisdom  of 
judgment  had  played  her  false  at  this  moment.  If  pride  had 
not  forbade  it  she  would  gladly  have  returned. 

As  the  train  swep£  round  a bend  on  the  rocks  she  saw  in 
the  distance  the  gray  spires  and  towers  of  Ladysrood  rising 
from  their  reddening  forests  and  purple  moorlands,  with  the 
soft  sunlit  mist  of  the  September  morning  shrouding  the 
hills  at  their  back.  Little  given  to  such  emotions  as  she  was, 
Lady  Sunbury  saw  them  through  another  mist,  which  was 
of  tears. 

“ There  is  one  consolation,  however,”  she  thought ; u even 
if  there  were  anything  serious  in  what  he  said,  one  week  of 
wet  November  weather  will  drive  this  fancy  from  his  thoughts 


56 


QUlLbEUOT. 


and  see  him  in  Paris  going  southward.  He  will  no  more  eft 
dure  an  English  winter  than  the  nightingales.” 

And  yet  she  regretted  more  and  more  that  she  had  left 
Ladysrood  with  such  precipitancy  as  the  train  flew  on  far- 
ther and  farther  over  the  breezy  downs  and  wooded  wolds  of 
Somerset  and  Wilts. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  days  which  succeeded  the  departure  of  his  sister  were 
the  quietest  which  Guilderoy  had  ever  passed  in  the  whole 
course  of  his  life.  He  had  too  effectually  slighted  and  re- 
jected the  society  of  his  county  for  any  one  of  his  neighbors 
to  venture  to  intrude  on  him.  He  was  disinclined  to  invite 
any  guest,  male  or  female;  the  evenings  found  him  sitting 
alone  at  dinner  and  reading  alone  in  his  library  afterwards ; 
twice  or  thrice  a week  he  rode  over  to  Christslea.  He  was 
astonished  himself  at  the  attraction  the  place  had  for  him, 
at  the  force  with  which  this  caprice  being  opposed  had  now 
become  the  one  present  object  of  his  life.  He  had  given  his 
word  to  John  Vernon  not  to  attempt  to  speak  to  the  child 
save  in  his  presence,  and  he  kept  his  word ; but  the  restric- 
tion annoyed  him,  and  by  its  annoyance  stimulated  the  fancy 
which  had  entered  into  him  until  it  became  something  kin- 
dred to  passion. 

Gladys  Vernon  captivated  his  imagination;  his  ideal  had 
always  turned  towards  some  mind  wholly  untainted  by  the 
world ; some  character  fresh  and  candid  and  untouched  by 
conventionalities.  He  had  created  in  imagination  a thousand 
qualities  from  women  which  he  had  never  found  in  them ; he 
had  wanted  at  once  passion  and  purity,  high  spirit  and  sub- 
mission, romance  and  ignorance  of  all  the  emotions  which 
make  up  romance;  he  had  desired  innumerable  utterly  op- 
posed and  contradictory  instincts  and  characteristics.  Only 
in  this  child  he  found,  or  at  the  least  he  fancied  that  he 
found,  them  united.  Her  courage,  her  indifference  and  her 
physical  beauty  were  great,  and  the  unstudied  indifference 
and  frank  repose  of  her  habitual  manner  attracted  his  taste 
and  stimulated  his  vanity. 

Her  eyes  were  as  unclouded,  her  cheeks  as  cool,  her  candor 


GUILDEROY. 


57 


and  her  serenity  as  undisturbed  as  when  he  first  crossed  the 
moorland  with  her ; to  move  her  from  this  repose  became  to 
him  a matter  of  intense  moment  and  interest : a pleasure 
which  he  could  not  deny  himself. 

Vernon  was  very  proud.  He  felt  as  bitterly  as  though  it 
were  some  merited  indignity  the  certainty  of  all  that  those 
who  had  once  known  him  would  say  of  the  marriage  of  his 
daughter  to  such  a man  as  Guilderoy.  The  world  always  at- 
tributes bad  motives^  and  to  the  world  it  would  naturally 
appear  that  he  had  chosen  his  residence  at  Christslea  with 
the  ulterior  view  of  gaining  his  landlord’s  title  for  his  only 
and  portionless  child. 

For  a thousand  intensely  personal  reasons  his  pain  and  ir- 
ritation at  Guilderoy's  proposals  were  most  sincere,  and  even 
for  his  child’s  own  sake  he  would  have  infinitely  preferred 
that  her  path  in  life  should  lie  in  those  quieter  and  more  ob- 
scure ways  in  which  he  honestly  believed  the  most  content 
and  the  least  temptation  to  lie  for  any  woman.  But  opposi- 
tion and  warning  only  increased  the  desires  and  determination 
of  a character  which  was  used  to  immediate  attainment  of  all 
wishes  with  little  consideration  of  who  or  what  might  pay  for 
them. 

All  the  water  which  Vernon  strove  to  throw  on  the  fires  of 
this  unreasonable  caprice  only  served  to  increase  them.  From 
being  slightly  enamored,  Gladys’  suitor  became  ardently  in 
love.  He  never  once  saw  her  out  of  her  father’s  presence, 
and  John  Vernon  would  permit  him  to  offer  her  no  present 
or  homage  of  any  kind. 

“I  have  told  you,”  he  said  to  Guilderoy,  “ more  than  once 
that  you  will  not  keep  in  the  same  mind  over  the  turn  of  the 
year,  and  I will  not  consent  to  your  sowing  the  seeds  of  ever 
so  slight  a regret  in  the  heart  of  the  child.  Youth  is  short 
enough,  you  know,  without  its  being  cut  prematurely  in  two 
by  the  kuife  of  disillusion.  She  might  care  nothing  at  all 
for  you,  but  on  the  other  hand  she  might  care  much.  She  has 
no  idea  of  what  the  emotions  of  life  are,  and  she  shall  not 
make  their  acquaintance  first  through  pain.  You  are  one  of 
those  wTho  love  and  ride  away ; you  can  ride  away  as  soon  as 
you  please,  but  love  here  you  shall  not  make.” 

The  doubt  of  his  stability  and  sincerity  so  often  expressed 
stung  Guilderoy  into  becoming  more  stable  and  more  sincere 
than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life.  It  was  not  the  result 
John  Vernon  either  contemplated  or  desired,  although  it  was 


58 


GUILDEROY. 


one  for  which  the  waywardness  of  human  nature  might  have 
prepared  him.  But  he  had  a little  forgotten  what  human 
nature  was  like,  living  in  his  hermitage  under  the  orchard 
boughs.  He  had  lived  so  entirely  with  the  great  spirits  of 
the  dead,  that  poor  modern  humanity,  so  fluctuating,  so  fitful, 
so  effeminate  and  so  little  reasonable,  scarcely  commanded 
his  sympathies  or  his  understanding.  Guilderoy  seemed  to 
him  a man  unequal  to  the  great  position  and  responsibilities 
to  which  he  had  been  called  by  fate.  He  honestly  disliked 
the  notion  of  giving  over  to  him  the  future  and  the  happiness 
of  his  young  daughter.  “He  would  not  treat  her  ill ; no, 
certainly  not ; nor  with  any  roughness  or  cruelty/5  he  mused, 
“ but  there  are  so  many  other  ways  of  making  a woman’s 
heart  ache.  And  the  child  herself  has  her  faults.  She  is 
not  easy  to  control  or  to  understand,  and  then  she  is  so  terribly 
young.  Ten  years  hence  she  will  be  only  at  the  age  when 
most  women  begin  their  life.” 

Thus  he  received  his  landlord  and  neighbor  with  little 
cordiality,  though  he  could  not  resist  on  his  own  part  a cer- 
tain sympathy  with  which  Guilderoy  inspired  him  personally. 
“ If  I were  a woman  I should  be  in  love  with  him,”  he 
thought;  “but  not  being  a woman  I see  him  as  he  is,  and  he 
has  all  the  defects  of  his  generation.  He  mistakes  the  senses 
for  the  passions,  culture  for  wisdom,  pessimism  for  philosophy, 
and  languor  for  superiority  to  ambition.  It  is  the  stuff  of 
which  patricians  are  always  made  in  a decadence.  It  is 
interesting  but  it  is  powerless.  Demos  reigns  over  it,  and 
it  avenges  itself  with  an  epigram  instead  of  drawing  a 
sword.” 

“You  think  ill  of  me,”  said  Guilderoy  to  him  once  at 
Christslea. 

“Ho,”  said  John  Vernon;  “that  is  far  too  strong  an 
expression.  You  are  what  you  cannot  help  being — you 
are  the  issue  of  a time  which  does  not  produce  great  men.” 

“ I have  certainly  no  pretension  to  be  great,”  said  Guil- 
deroy, not  flattered. 

“ That  is  what  I complain  of.  You  ought  to  have  more 
than  the  pretension — you  should  have  the  inner  sense,  the 
intimate  persuasion  that  you  are  bound  to  be  so.  Why  does 
aristocracy  everywhere  recede  before  the  mob  ? Because 
aristocracy  has  lost  faith  in  itself.  In  England  the  Whig 
nobles  began  the  surrender.  They  have  been  unable  to  stop 


GUILDEBOT . S9 

half-way.  They  have  been  compelled  to  put  the  Phrygian 
cap  on  their  heads.” 

“ I see  no  difference  between  Whigs  and  Tories  or  between 
Tories  and  Radicals,”  said  Guilderoy.  “They  both  and  all 
spend  their  lives  in  buttering  parsnips  and  offering  them  on 
their  knees  to  the  mob.  I will  not  prepare  such  a platter, 
and  therefore  I have  never  entered  public  life.” 

“ Public  life  in  England  is  a very  poor  thing,  that  I grant,” 
said  Yernon  ; “but  it  used  to  be  a very  grand  thing,  and  if 
its  nobility  had  been  true  to  itself  it  might  perhaps  have 
been  so  still.  Democracy  is  uninteresting,  unintelligent, 
untrustworthy,  illogical.  The  doctrine  of  the  supremacy  of 
mere  numbers  can  never  be  either  admirable  or  stable.  Th® 
crowd  is  like  the  mud  and  sand  of  a foul  sea-shore — impotent 
to  hold,  powerful  only  to  stifle.  I quite  agree  with  you,  I 
wholly  agree  with  you,  that  when  a great  nobility  took  off 
its  hat  to  the  mud  and  the  sand  and  said,  6 We  are  your 
servants/  it  deserved  to  be  kicked  as  it  is  being  kicked  by 
its  master.” 

“ Why  blame  me  for  not  doing  it,  then  ? ” 

“ I am  not  aware  that  I ever  did  blame  you.  I quite 
admit  that  where  public  life  has  become  such  a parody  of 
government  that  the  Premier  must  scream  like  a Dulcamara, 
or  every  Minister  make  a tour  of  the  provinces  like  a negro 
minstrel,  it  has  come  to  pass  that  the  scholar  must  scorn,  and 
the  gentleman  must  shun,  and  the  proud  men  of  every  class 
refuse  it.  But  I say  that  a time  which  makes  its  statesmen 
mountebanks,  and  would  send  a Pitt  and  a Burke,  if  it  had 
them,  to  be  only  the  mouthpieces  of  a caucus,  is  a time  which 
can  produce  nothing  great ; and  in  which  its  nobles,  if  they 
are  too  proud  to  be  delegates,  become  inevitably  what  you 
are.” 

“ And  what  is  that  ? ” 

“ A man  perfectly  accomplished  and  perfectly  useless, 
to  whom  property  is  a burden  and  the  world  a dull  comedy.” 

Guilderoy’s  face  flushed  slightly. 

“ I do  not  dispute  the  justice  of  your  verdict.  My  sister, 
Lady  Sunbury,  is  always  telling  me  the  same  thing,  so  is  my 
cousin  Aubrey.  But  what  would  you  have  me  do  ? Public 
life,  you  yourself  admit,  justifies  my  dislike  of  it.  I have  no 
genius  with  which  to  make  myself  remarkable.  My  property 
is  left  to  those  who  have  much  more  talent  for  managing  it 
than  I have.  What  do  you  call  being  useful?  Breeding 


60 


GUILDJEEOY . 


prize-cattle  ? Opening  town-halls  ? Lecturing  on  poetry 
to  the  most  unpoetical  race  on  earth  ? Sending  youths  to 
the  university  who  will  live  to  regret  that  they  were  ever 
taken  from  the  plough  ? Giving  money  to  build  palaces  of 
pleasure  and  art  for  the  most  ludicrous  and  coarsest  democ 
racy  that  ever  made  pleasure  loathsome  and  art  grotesque, 
who  would  play  Aunt  Sally  with  the  Venus  of  Milo,  and  grin 
in  horseplay  at  the  Laocoon  ? Or  yielding  up  good  land  out 
of  fear  to  be  cut  up  into  chess-boards  of  vegetables  to  appease 
the  laboring  man,  in  the  illogical  belief  that  people  hunger- 
ing for  all  I have  will  be  contented  because  out  of  cowardice 
I offer  them  a cabbage  ? Which  of  these  things  do  you 
think  is  useful  ? I beg  leave  to  doubt  that  any  of  them 
would  be.  Everything  which  men  of  my  order  do  of  this 
kind  is  done  out  of  fear.  It  is  a motive  by  which  I will  not 
be  inspired.  They  are  like  children  trying  to  make  a dyke 
against  a flood  with  wooden  spades.  The  flood  is  coming 
on  us,  and  ve  shall  not  escape  it,  but  we  may  at  least  await 
it  with  dignity.  To  consent  to  fell  your  ancestral  oaks  that 
Hodge  may  plant  a cabbage  the  more  in  its  place  is  not 
dignified,  and  it  will  do  nothing  against  the  deluge.” 

“You  are  not  so  languid  as  I thought,”  reflected  John 
Vernon,  as  Guilder oy  continued  with  some  warmth: — 

“ The  Greeks  only  let  their  helots  loose  once  a year ; we 
have  given  ours  every  day  of  the  year,  whether  feasting  or 
fasting.  Never  before  was  there  such  abject  abdication  of 
birth,  breeding,  property,  and  learning  before  ignorance  and 
greed,  and  the  sheer  brute  force  of  numbers.  I do  not  think 
that  any  human  force  can  arrest  the  ugly  rush  down  hill  of 
democracy  when  once  it  has  begun,  but  I think  that  we  may 
abstain  from  degrading  ourselves  by  swearing  that  we  con- 
sider it  a heavenward  flight.  Democracy  is  envy — envy  of 
every  kind  of  distinguished  excellence.  There  is  nothing 
noble,  stimulating,  or  heavenwardly  about  it : men  only  pre* 
tend  that  there  is,  to  obtain  a little  ephemeral  and  fictitious 
popularity.  I do  not  suppose  I am  what  is  called  a Tory, 
for  I care  nothing  at  all  about  the  House  of  Hanover  or  the 
Church  of  England,  but  I do  care  about  the  supremacy  of  the 
fittest,  and  I do  not  recognize  the  fittest  in  the  howling  mob 
of  a manufacturing  city,  or  the  crowds  of  hinds  gathered  at  a 
hiring.” 

“I  am  altogether  with  you, said  John  Vernon,  “ but  I 
should  like  you  to  show  me  that  you  are  of  the  fittest.  Liv* 


GtTILDEROY. 


65 


ing  in  Italy,  making  love  to  innumerable  women,  and  buying 
statues  and  pictures,  do  not  prove  it.” 

“If  I distressed  myself  ever  sc  I should  not  affect  the  re- 
sult,” said  Guilderoy.  “Ail  the  public  functions  of  English 
life  are  become  grotesque.  Parliamentary  government  com- 
pels every  statesman  to  be  nothing  but  a delegate.  There  is 
no  real  leadership  possible.  Even  the  great  Cecil  is  com- 
pelled to  bawl  to  mass-meetings.  Public  speaking  has  ex~ 
tinguished  statesmanship.  Can  you  imagine  a Richelieu,  a 
Warwick,  or  a Choiseul  consenting  to  scream  out  the  explan- 
ation of  his  projects  and  his  motives  to  a mob  ? Would  the 
solitary  of  Varzin  rule  Europe  as  he  does  if  he  had  to  solicit 
the  applause  of  Bremen  porters,  and  describe  his  designs  to 
Ltibeck  clothsellers  ? What  nation  in  the  mass  could  ever 
be  capable  of  comprehending  the  delicacy,  the  intuition,  and 
the  prophetic  vision  which  alone  make  up  great  statecraft  ? 
What  mob  could  ever  be  able  to  measure  the  unseen  forces 
of  life,  the  science  of  history,  the  powers  which  govern  men? 
None;  and  democracy,  instead  of  being  an  era  of  peace, 
will  be  an  eternity  of  little  peddling  wars,  because  nothing 
is  so  productive  of  war  as  ignorance;  and  then  each  little 
war  will  be  hurried  up  and  ended  in  a disgraceful  and  costly 
peace,  because  nothing  is  so  soon  frightened  as  a crowd,  and 
no  one  is  so  willing  to  spend  as  a mob  which  pays  no  taxes.” 
“Quite  true,”  said  Vernon.  “But  I wish  you  would  say 
this  in  the  Lords,  and  not  only  in  this  garden.” 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Vernon  had  been  very  unwilling  to  visit  Ladysrood.  He 
had  refused  continual  invitations  and  entreaties  from  its 
owner.  But  at  the  last  his  own  wishes  were  overborne  by 
the  wishfulness  of  his  daughter  to  see  the  place  which  had 
so  long  filled  so  large  a place  in  her  childlike  imagination. 
He  could  not  resist  the  mute  entreaty  of  her  eyes,  longing 
and  expressive  as  a dog’s,  and  at  last,  in  the  ruddy  autumn 
weather,  he  consented  to  be  driven  over  the  moors  and 
through  its  forest  to  the  great  lime-tree  avenue  which  led  to 
the  front  entrance  of  the  house. 

The  light  sparkled  over  the  sculptured  pinnacles,  the  high 


62 


GUILVJSROY. 


metal  roofs,  and  the  lofty  towers  of  the  composite  hut  noble 
pile,  and  the  whole  residence  wore  an  air  of  welcome  and 
gayety  as  they  entered  it.  Vernon  sighed  impatiently,  as 
he  stood  in  the  great  central  quadrangle.  Could  not  the 
master  of  this  palace  find  some  suitable  mate  in  all  the  no- 
bilities of  Europe,  that  he  must  needs  come  and  take  a lonely 
* man’s  one  ewe-lamb  ? His  was  not  a selfish  nature,  but  his 
heart  hardened  within  him  at  what  seemed  to  him  the  wan- 
ton waywardness  of  Guilderoy’s  caprice. 

It  was  a brilliant  day,  though  cold,  and  the  reddened 
woods  were  glowing  in  a sun  less  pale  than  usual  in  an  Eng- 
lish autumn.  The  great  house  had  a sunshine  sparkling  on 
all  its  many  casements,  and  on  its  pinnacles  and  crockets, 
and  spires,  and  on  the  folds  of  the  flag  drooping  above  the 
central  tower.  The  gardens  were  still  gay  with  dahlias,  and 
fuchsias,  and  tea-roses,  and  the  fountains  were  all  play- 
ing, while  the  peacocks  drew  their  plumes  over  the  terrace 
pavement.  All  that  the  place  held,  from  its  armory  to  its 
hot-houses,  from  its  State  apartments  where  Tudor  and 
Stuart  sovereigns  had  slept,  to  its  secret  hiding  chambers  in 
the  thickness  of  its  walls,  were  all  open  to  the  sunlight  and 
to  Gladys  Vernon. 

She  went  through  them  enchanted  and  reverent,  as  though 
she  turned  the  pages  of  some  illuminated  volume  of  Frossart 
or  the  Sire  de  Joinville.  It  was  the  first  historic  house 
which  she  had  ever  seen. 

“ It  is  a very  noble  home/’  said  John  Vernon.  “ Really 
you  ought  never  to  be  wearied  of  it.” 

Guilderoy  did  not  reply. 

He  was  conscious  that  he  did  weary  of  it,  and  he  regret- 
ted it. 

“ It  is  so  bad  a climate,”  he  said  after  a pause.'  u Rain  is 
depressing  despite  oneself ; if  the  house  were  in  Touraine  or 
in  Tuscany  it  would  be  perfect.” 

“ Our  fathers  did  not  mind  climate.  I do  not  know  why 
we  are  so  sensitive  to  it,”  said  Vernon.  “I  am  not  sure 
whether  it  shows  emasculation  or  increased  sympathy  with 
nature.” 

“ Both,  perhaps,”  answered  Guilderoy.  “And  then,  prob- 
ably, their  England  was  in  no  way  so  bad  as  ours.  The 
centre  of  it  was  not  one  vast  furnace  as  it  is  now.  You  have 
only  to  go  to  Venice  to  see  how  rapidly  smoke  changes 
atmosphere.” 


GUILDEROY.  63 

“Well,  you  have  no  furnaces  within  a hundred  miles.  Be 
thankful/*  said  John  Vernon. 

Meanwhile  his  young  daughter  was  gazing  about  her,  with 
her  violet  eyes  wide  open  in  eager  interest  and  brilliant  with 
pleasure.  The  old  house  fascinated  her.  Though  she  had 
seen  nothing  but  the  sea  and  the  orchards  by  Christslea,  she 
had  a passionate  love  of  all  beautiful  and  ancient  things.  Of 
art  she  knew  nothing  by  sight,  and  had  only  heard  of  it 
through  books  and  her  father’s  conversation,  but  she  had  the 
instinctive  and  unerring  sense  of  its  beauties  and  excellencies 
which  is  born  in  some  temperaments. 

Ladysrood  was  a treasure-house  of  art ; every  generation 
which  had  passed  away  there  had  left  something  to  increase 
the  glories  of  its  heirlooms  ; and  the  present  lord  himself  had 
spent  half  a million  of  money  in  adding  to  its  sculptures,  and 
bronzes,  and  pictures.  It  was  one  of  those  palaces  of  the  arts 
which  have  so  long  honored  England,  hidden  modestly  away 
under  her  woods  and  in  the  folds  of  her  low  hills ; and  which 
are  now  in  so  many  places  being  emptied  and  defiled,  that 
the  sound  of  the  auctioneer’s  hammer  may  ring  in  unison 
with  the  death-knell  of  great  races  and  of  national  honor. 

The  child  looked  suited  to  the  house ; she  wore  a plain 
gray  frock  with  a pale  blue  sash,  and  a wide-brimmed  gray 
felt  hat,  and  she  might  have  sat  to  Romney  or  Sir  Joshua. 
She  had  put  in  the  bosom  of  her  frock  some  roses  which 
Guilderoy  had  given  her ; her  face,  alternately  serious  and  pen- 
sive, and  gay  and  animated,  was  as  lovely  as  any  face  in  the 
marbles  or  the  canvases  of  his  galleries.  She  was  only  a child, 
but  he  thought  that  in  the  mere  girl,  fresh  with  the  dews 
and  the  breezes  of  the  country,  it  was  easy  to  discern  the 
great  lady,  the  patrician  beauty,  of  the  future.  She  was  now 
like  a crayon  sketch  of  Watts’  or  Leighton’s,  but  a few  years 
would  make  her  a portrait  in  court  dress  by  Carolus  Durant. 

She  was  entirely  a child ; the  solitude  of  her  life  and  its 
rural  pleasures  and  pursuits  had  kept  her  infinitely  younger 
in  many  things  than  children  reared  in  the  world  can  ever 
be,  whilst  on  the  other  hand  the  conversation  and  compan- 
ionship of  her  father  had  made  her  mind  graver  and  more 
thoughtful  than  her  years.  John  Vernon  had  liked  that 
simplicity  and  rusticity,  and  had  always  forborne  from  caus- 
ing any  change  in  them.  He  abhorred  the  new  theories  of 
education  for  women,  and  he  had  preferred  to  see  his  child 
care  for  roses,  for  birds,  for  the  sea  and  the  moors,  for  all 


64 


GUILDEROY. 


outdoor  things  and  outdoor  movements,  than  to  see  her  dis* 
sect  a rabbit  or  hear  her  discuss  a protogenesis.  He  had 
always  thought  of  her  as  a mere  baby  ; he  had  never  been 
disturbed  about  her  future  or  her  right  to  see  something  of 
that  world  to  which  she  by  birth  belonged.  ei  It  will  be  time 
when  she  is  grown  up,”  he  had  always  reflected ; and  that 
time  had  always  seemed  to  him  so  far  off  that  there  could 
be  no  immediate  need  to  think  of  it. 

The  habit  of  being  always  treated  by  him  as  a child  had 
kept  her  perfectly  childlike,  while  on  the  other  hand  the 
deference  with  which  she  was  treated  by  the  few  rustics  and 
fisher-people  who  made  up  her  little  world,  had  developed  in 
her  the  habits  of  command  and  of  decision.  The  opposing 
influences  surrounding  her  had  made  her  as  little  fitted  for 
actual  life  as  Tennyson’s  Princess  or  Coleridge’s  Christabel ; 
but  it  had  made  her  courageous  and  candid  in  an  unusual 
degree ; it  had  left  her  an  infantine  sweetness  and  innocence 
united  to  a great  daring  and  seriousness ; it  had  rendered 
her  indeed  so  entirely  unlike  all  other  girls  or  women  that 
Guilderoy  was  not  merely  yielding  to  a romantic  exaggera- 
tion when  he  thought  he  saw  in  her  an  embodiment  of 
Shakespeare’s  heroines,  with  the  freshness  and  the  frank- 
ness, the  simplicity  and  the  strength  of  a more  unsophisti- 
cated and  heroic  time  than  her  own. 

u How  charming  is  a young  creature  who  has  seen  noth- 
ing, and  is  ready  to  understand  everything  instinctively,”  he 
said  to  her  father,  when  she  had  lingered  behind  them  to 
look  at  a scene  which  had  especially  charmed  her  fancy. 

Vernon  smiled  a little  dubiously. 

“ You  think  so  now  because  you  happen  to  be  in  the  mood 
to  appreciate  it,  but  in  a little  while  you  would  find  it  monot- 
onous, insipid  and  uncultured.  You  would  grow  very  tired 
of  a mind  which  needed  to  have  everything  explained  to  it, 
and  you  would  sigh  for  somebody  who  could  catch  your 
allusions  flying.” 

“ You  speak  of  your  daughter  as  though  she  were  a dau’y* 
maid,”  Guilderoy  said,  with  indignation. 

John  Vernon  laughed. 

“ Oh,  no : I appreciate  her,  perhaps  more  thoroughly  than 
you  do.  I even  grant  that  she  is  a charming  child  in  many 
ways,  and  the  kind  of  ignorance  she  has  pleases  me ; if  it  had 
not  done  so  I would  have  taken  steps  to  change  it.  But  if  you 
ask  me  whether  I consider  her  a companion  for  a man  of  the 


OU1LDEROY. 


65 


•world  wlio  lives  in  the  world,  I must  say  I do  not.  She 
would  grow  to  his  height  in  time  no  doubt,  but  he  would 
have  got  fatigued  of  waiting  for  her  long  before  she  had 
reached  there.” 

“You  are  very  obstinate.” 

“ Nay,  I am  not  more  obstinate  than  you,  and  I have  more 
reason  to  be  so,  for  I have  more  at  stake.” 

“You  will  persist  in  regarding  all  I feel  as  a caprice.” 

“It  is  a caprice,”  said  Vernon,  with  some  impatience,  as 
his  young  daughter  came  up  to  them. 

She  had  been  enchanted  with  a little  picture,  a David  Cox, 
which  chanced  to  represent  the  creek  below  Christslea  with, 
its  apple  orchards  and  its  red  sandstone  cliffs,  and  this  sud* 
den  finding  and  recognizing  of  a piece  of  her  own  home  land- 
scape had  seemed  to  her  a miracle  which  she  could  in  no  way 
forget.  Her  enthusiasm  amused  her  father,  and  touched  and 
charmed  her  host. 

“ It  would  make  the  old  painter  happy  in  his  grave  if  he 
could  hear  you,”  said  Guilderoy.  “David  Cox  loved  Eng- 
land as  you  do.  Most  of  his  green  lanes  and  gorse-covered 
commons,  and  moss-grown  watermills  are  swept  away  by  the 
curse  of  modernity,  but  that  little  creek  of  Christslea  is  not 
changed,  I think,  by  so  much,  as  a wind-blown  tree,  the  less 
or  the  more  ; even  the  boat  he  has  grown  on  the  sand  looks 
like  an  old  red  boat  which  is  used  to  fish  with,  there  to-day. 
The  man  is  dead,  and  the  boat  is  there.” 

“ It  is  wonderful,”  said  Gladys,  in  a tone  of  awe.  “ It  is 
not  six  inches  long,  this  little  picture  ; and  yet  the  whole 
creek  is  there,  and  one  sees  miles,  miles,  miles,  out  over  the 
open  sea,  just  as  one  does  when  one  stands  on  the  sands.” 

“ That  is  Art  the  Magician,”  said  Guilderoy.  “ We  are  so 
used  to  the  sorcery  that  we  forget  the  wonder  of  it.  We 
want  fresh  eyes  like  yours  to  see  it  for  us.” 

“ You  will  surely  let  me  give  her  that  little  water  color ! ” 
he  asked  of  Vernon  when  she  was  again  a few  yards  away 
from  them. 

“ No,  by  no  means,”  said  the  other  almost  rudely.  The 
persistency  of  Guilderoy  annoyed  and  irritated  him  ; he  was 
provoked  that  the  man  who  had  the  whole  world  of  women 
to  choose  from,  must  needs  take  a fancy  to  a country  child 
who  was  as  simple  and  untrained  as  a plant  of  sea  lavender. 

Luncheon  was  served  in  a small  dining-room  belonging  to 
the  Queen  Anne  suite  of  apartments,  and  when  it  was  ovey 


66 


GV1LDEB0 5\ 


John  Vernon  ashed  leave  to  return  to  the  library,  through 
which  he  had  only  passed  hastily,  and  which  was  celebrated 
for  its  collection  of  State  papers  of  the  Tudor  time,  made  by 
a learned  earl  in  one  of  the  previous  centuries. 

It  was  a noble  room,  though  somewhat  dark.  It  belonged 
to  the  oldest  part  of  the  house,  and  had  deep  embrasured  win- 
dows, and  walls  and  ceiling  of  carved  oak.  The  catalogue  of 
the  books  and  manuscripts  was  a work  of  learning  and  care, 
as  famous  to  bibliophiles  as  the  collection  itself.  John 
Vernon  was  soon  absorbed  in  its  pages.  It  was  a large  folio 
lying  open  on  a brass  lectern.  Guilderoy  took  advantage  of 
his  preoccupation  to  lead  the  girl  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  where  there  was  a beautifully  illuminated  Horse  of  the 
fifteenth  century  under  lock  and  key  in  a glass  case. 

With  scant  regard  for  the  priceless  Horse  he  had  taken  it 
from  its  double  case  and  carried  it  into  the  embrasure  of  one 
of  the  windows,  and  he  sat  beside  her,  while  the  missal  lay 
on  her  lap. 

While  he  turned  the  leaves  over  and  explained  to  her  the 
minatures  and  allegorical  borders  he  looked  at  her  with  a 
lover’s  eyes.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat,  and  the  rebellious 
waves  and  curls  of  her  hair  shone  in  the  pale  light  from  one 
of  the  windows.  Her  eyes  looked  at  him  with  the  single- 
minded  regard  of  a child  of  five  years  old.  Her  lips  were 

!)arted  as  she  listened,  and  the  fairness  of  her  throat  looked 
ike  a lily  beside  the  gray  wool  of  her  frock. 

“ After  all,”  he  thought  as  he  gazed  down  on  her,  “there  is 
nothing  so  bewitching  as  the  morning  of  life ; and  old  Her* 
rick  is  right — 

Gather  your  roses  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying! 

One  of  the  miniatures  was  the  marriage  of  St.  Catherine 
with  the  child  Jesus.  Lilies  and  roses  formed  the  border, 
and  doves  nested  in  twisted  olive  boughs  above. 

“ That  is  very  beautiful ! ” said  Gladys  ; “ and  the  doves 
are  just  like  my  doves  at  home.” 

“ There  is  a dove  which  rests  in  the  hearts  of  all  of  us  some 
time  or  other,”  he  answered.  “It’s  name  is  Love.  Have 
you  ever  thought  whether  you  would  give  it  welcome  ? ” 

• She  looked  at  him  in  perplexity. 

“No,”  she  said,  slowly.  “At  least,  I am  not  sure.  I love 
tny  father.  Is  that  what  you  mean  ? ” 

“ That  is  not  at  all  what  I mean,”  said  Guilderoy  with  a 


QtllLDEBOT. 


67 


smile  as  lie  glided  on  to  one  knee  before  her,  and  "held  the 
missal  on  her  lap.  He  was  in  no  haste  to  dispel  this  uncon- 
sciousness— it  pleased  him.  It  was  so  wholly  simple  and 
sincere.  Any  counterfeit  of  it  would  have  been  odious  and 
contemptible,  but  the  reality  was  lovely,  grave  and  frank  and 
sweet ; as  natural  as  the  innocence  of  the  dove. 

“ Tell  me  more  stories,”  she  said,  turning  a page  of  the 
Book  of  Hours. 

His  attitude  did  not  trouble  her ; she  thought  he  kneeled 
there  to  hold  the  heavy  missal  better. 

Guilderoy  did  not  reply ; his  eyes  were  dwelling  on  the 
youthful  face  above  him,  and  he  felt  a passionate  desire  to 
cover  it  with  kisses  and  to  change  the  cool,  faint  color  of  its 
lips  and  cheeks.  He  cast  a rapid  glance  to  where  John 
Vernon  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  stood,  with  his  back  to 
them,  bending  over  the  lectern.  The  sun  of  the  autumnal 
afternoon  came  through  the  leaded  panes  behind  her,  and 
shone  about  her  head,  giving  it  a shining  nimbus  and  chang- 
ing the  gray  of  her  fawn  to  silver.  Her  face  was  in  shadow, 
and  her  drooped  eyelids  as  she  looked  down  on  the  book 
showed  the  deep  dark  line  of  the  lashes,  and  gave  her  the 
grave  and  religious  loveliness  of  some  young  saint. 

“ Would  you  love  me  a little  ?”  he  asked,  leaning  nearer, 
while  his  voice  had  the  persuasive  appeal  in  it  which  no 
woman  to  whom  it  had  ever  been  addressed  had  ever  resisted. 

She  was  a little  startled.  Her  eyes  left  the  study  of  the 
Horse  and  looked  with  bewilderment  at  him. 

“I  do  not  know,”  she  stammered,  while,  without  her  know- 
ing why,  her  cheeks  grew  hot.  “I  do  not  know.  What  do 
you  mean  ? Why  should  I ? ” 

“ Because  I love  you,”  he  answered,  with  an  infinite  caress 
in  the  words,  which  are  so  old  and  yet  are  ever  so  new. 
“Will  you  love  me?”  he  asked  her ; “and  live  with  me 
here  ? ” 

She  looked  at  him  with  serious  and  doubtful  eyes. 

“ Live  here — at  Ladysrood  ? ” she  asked. 

“Well,  yes;  a few  months  out  of  the  year — not  more.  I 
will  be  honest  with  you.  But  could  you  be  happy  with  me, 
do  you  think  ? ” 

“I  should  like  the  house,”  she  said  with  hesitation,  but 
with  unflattering  honesty. 

“Would  you  not  like  me  also?”  said  Guilderoy.  His 
words  were  light,  but  his  eyes  were  eloquent,  and  startled 


68 


GUILDEROY. 


the  child’s  calm  soul.  Quite  suddenly,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life,  a blush  like  the  rose  of  dawn  spread  over  her  face 
and  throat.  She  could  not  have  told  why,  nor  said  what  she 
felt. 

“ I do  not  know,”  she  stammered,  and  her  eyelids  fell. 

“ I will  teach  you  to  know,”  murmured  Guilderoy,  and  he 
drew  her  gently  towards  him,  and  kissed  her. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Five  minutes  later  John  Yernon  closed  the  catalogue,  and 
turned  to  them. 

“Lord  Guilderoy,  I had  your  word,”  he  said  with  great 
anger.  “Could  I suppose  that  you  would  betray  me  in  such 
a manner  as  this  ? It  is  wholly  unworthy  of  you — and  in 
your  own  house  also  ! For  shame  ! ” 

Guilderoy’s  face  flushed  a little. 

“ You  are  very  severe.  Can  you  make  no  excuse  for 
temptation  ? I quite  admit  that  I have  broken  my  word  in 
the  spirit,  although  not  in  the  letter — since  you  were  present. 
Is  it  worth  while  to  make  a quarrel  of  what  cannot  be  unsaid 
now  ? Ask  your  daughter.” 

The  child  stood  looking  from  one  to  the  other  with  some 
timidity.  She  did  not  wholly  understand  even  now  what  it 
was  which  made  her  the  subject  of  dissension.  She  was 
bewildered  ; afraid,  and  yet  happy.  The  dark  library  seemed 
to  her  full  of  golden  light. 

“ Gladys,  is  it  possible  that  you  wish  to  leave  me — and  for 
a stranger  ? ” said  her  father,  with  pain  and  reproach  in  his 
voice  and  his  heart. 

She  hung  her  head,  and  her  face  burned  with  changing 
blushes. 

“ It  is  not  very  far  away,”  she  murmured,  almost  inaudibly. 

John  Yernon  understood  that  she  was  lost  to  him,  and  that 
to  strive  against  fate  any  longer  was  useless. 


GUILDEROY. 


69 


CHAPTER  XI. 

“My  dear  Hilda/’  wrote  Guilderoy  to  his  sister,  “I  an 
about  to  marry  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Vernon  of  Llanarth,  as  I 
told  you  in  September  that  I should  do.  You  have  been 
always  exceedingly  desirous  that  I should  marry,  only  it  was 
on  condition  that  you  should  be  empowered  to  choose  the 
companion  of  my  destinies.  As  I am  the  more  interested  of 
the  two  in  such  a choice,  I have  ventured  to  make  the  selec- 
tion without  applying  to  you.  I should  be  sorry  if  you  should 
persist  in  quarrelling  with  me  about  it,  because  there  is  really 
no  valid  ground  whatever  for  a quarrel.  Gladys  Vernon  is 
not  a kitchen-maid,  a femme  taree , or  an  American  advent- 
uress in  search  of  a title — the  only  three  persons  to  whom 
you  would,  I think,  be  justified  in  objecting  vi  et  armis. 
She  is  quite  a child,  and  I venture  to  hope  that  you  will  be 
kind  to  her.  When  will  you  return  to  Ladysrood  and  let 
her  see  you  ? ” 

The  letter  concluded  with  some  allusions  to  other  matters 
of  less  personal  interest,  and  was  signed  with  affectionate 
expressions. 

It  reached  Lady  Sunbury  when  she  was  staying  with  a large 
party  with  her  uncle  at  Balfrons.  The  shock  of  the  intelligence 
was  increased  by  her  knowledge  of  her  own  error  in  leaving 
her  brother’s  house  : who  could  tell  what  influence  she  might 
not  have  had  if  she  had  remained  with  him  ? The  fact  that 
she  had  not  the  very  slightest  kind  of  influence  on  Guilderoy 
at  any  time  did  not  occur  to  her  remembrance.  She  was  a 
clever  woman,  but  like  many  clever  people  she  had  no  just 
'estimate  of  her  power  over  others  ; because  she  felt  the  ability 
to  guide  them  she  imagined  that  she  had  the  means  to  do  so, 
an  error  common  enough  in  human  nature. 

“ Evelyn  is  going  to  marry  a country  girl  because  she  beat 
some  village  boys  off  a fox  ! ” she  cried  with  intense  bitterness 
to  her  cousin  Aubrey,  who  chanced  to  be  in  the  library  at 
Balfrons  at  that  moment.  “ Good  heavens  ! a man  who  has 
declined  half  the  best  alliances  in  Europe  goes  and  throws 


to 


aXTILDEnOT . 


himself  away  in  some  moment  of  mad  caprice  on  a rustic. 
Somebody  with  brown  hands  and  lean  elbows,  who  will  make 
me  look  ridiculous  when  I have  to  present  her  ! Somebody 
whom  he  will  get  divorced  from  with  some  horrible  esclandre 
and  uproar  that  will  be  the  talk  of  London  a whole  season  ! ” 

“ A country  girl  ? ” said  Lord  Aubrey,  raising  his  eye- 
brows ; (( Je  lui  donne  une  quinzaine  /” 

“ Is  it  not  just  like  him  ?”  cried  Lady  Sunbury,  with  a 
quiver  of  unutterable  scorn  in  her  voice.  “ Is  it  not  exactly 
the  kind  of  thing  we  might  be  sure  he  would  do  ? After  all 
these  years  of  hypercriticism,  of  superciliousness,  of  disdain, 
all  these  years  of  romantic  caprices  and  impossible  passions, 
after  rejecting  all  the  most  charming  women  in  Europe,  to 
go  and  throw  his  life  away  on  a rustic  hoyden,  a vixen 
whom  he  saw  fighting  with  a mob  of  village  boys ! ” 

Aubrey  laughed  ; he  was  accustomed  to  his  cousin’s  manner 
of  arranging  circumstances  according  to  her  own  views  of 
them. 

“ I don’t  think  it  can  be  quite  as  bad  as  that,”  he  said, 
turning  over  the  letter,  which  she  had  thrown  to  him.  “ One 
can  trust  Evelyn’s  taste  in  women  and  pictures.  But  if  you 
knew  there  was  any  danger  of  this  affair,  why  did  you  not 
stay  on  at  Ladysrood  ? ” 

“ Would  to  heaven  I had ! ” said  Lady  Sunbury,  with  in- 
finite bitterness.  “ I should  have  seen  her  at  any  rate  ! ” 

“ I wouldn’t  make  a quarrel  if  I were  you,”  said  Aubrey. 
“ You  see,  he  writes  very  well ; he  is  evidently  anxious  you 
should  countenance  the  affair,  and  that  is  a good  deal  for 
him  to  admit.” 

“ Countenance  it  ? Never  ! ” 

“ Then  you  will  make  a great  blunder,”  said  her  cousin 
very  sensibly.  “ There  is  nothing  for  anyone  seriously  to 
object  to,  we  may  be  sure.  He  is  not  a man  to  marry  any- 
body beneath  him,  and  it  is  merely  a matter  of  good  feeling 
with  him  to  ask  your  approbation  ; what  you  do  cannot 
really  matter  two  straws  to  him.  Come,  write  something 
pleasant.  Why  quarrel  ? After  all,  it  does  not  really  concern 
you.” 

“ Concern  me  ? ” repeated  Lady  Sunbury,  in  a voice  stifled 
by  rage.  “ Not  concern  me  ? What  should  concern  me  ? 
What  should  concern  me  if  not  the  honor  of  my  family,  the 
reputation  of  my  brother,  the  purity  of  my  father’s  namej 
the  respect  of  my  own  native  county  ? ” 


GUILDEROY. 


71 


u Those  valuable  things  are  all  safe  enough/’  said  Aubrey, 
carelessly.  “ Evelyn  is  a fool  in  some  ways,  but  he  will  not 
buy  a peche  a quinze  sous  with  his  family  pride  : in  that 
kind  of  matter  he  is  the  proudest  man  living.  Of  course  it 
does  not  please  you  ; it  is  natural  it  should  not  please  you ; but 
if  I were  you  I would  try  to  look  as  if  it  did.  Pleasantness  is 
always  the  best  policy  before  anything  which  we  cannot 
alter.” 

“ What  is  the  matter  ? ” asked  the  Earl  of  Sunbury,  com- 
ing in  with  a bundle  of  letters  for  his  wife  to  answer. 

“ Guilderoy  is  going  to  marry  a country  girl,  and  Hilda 
takes  it  as  an  insult  to  herself,”  replied  her  cousin. 

Sunbury  gave  a long  whistle. 

“ A country  girl  and  you  will  have  to  present  her  ? ” he 
said,  with  zest  in  anything  which  annoyed  his  wife. 

“ Others  may  present  her.  I shall  not,”  said  Lady  Sun- 
bury. 

“ Ah  ! you  mean  to  make  a row  of  it  ? You  always  make 
a row.  Lots  of  people  will  present  her.  Perhaps  she  has 
decent  people  of  her  own.  Is  she  ‘born/  as  the  French 
say  ? ” 

“You  had  better  write  and  congratulate  him,”  said  his 
wife.  “ He  cares  so  much  for  your  opinion.” 

“I  shall  certainly  congratulate  him.  I always  liked  him, 
though  he  monopolizes  all  the  amiability  of  his  family,”  re- 
plied Sunbury,  who  had  often  found  the  generosity  of  his 
brother-in-law  convenient  and  long-suffering. 

“ Oh,  yes,  write  and  felicitate  him,  both  of  you,”  said  Au- 
brey, rising  and  going  away  before  what  he  foresaw  would  be 
a connubial  quarrel.  “He  has  done  a great  folly,  and  of 
course  he  will  regret  it  immeasurably,  and  all  that,  but  we 
cannot  alter  it;  and  after  all  it  is  his  own  affair.  And  you 
wouldn’t  like  Madame  Soria  better,  and  it  would  be  Madame 
Soria  some  day  if  it  were  not  someone  else.” 

“A  wholesome  English  girl  is  certainly  better  than  thaty 
if  she  be  a dairymaid,”  said  Lady  Sunbury ; and  towards 
evening  she  wrote  a letter  which  was  almost  kind  in  tone,  al- 
though the  kindness  was  marred  and  jarred  by  many  proph- 
ecies of  ill. 

“It  is  strange  how  certain  both  she  and  John  Vernon  are 
that  we  shall  be  miserable  ! ” thought  Guilderoy  when  he 
received  it. 

He  had  received  another  letter  that  day  from  Italy  which  had 


72 


GUILDEROY . 


also  irritated  him  excessively ; a letter  full  of  those  useless 
reproaches,  those  unwise  rebukes,  those  injudicious  and  vio- 
lent demands  which  are  the  whips  wherewith  women  think 
to  scourge  to  activity  a dead  or  dying  passion.  They  are 
usually  as  futile  as  a whip  of  nettles  used  on  a marble 
statue.  They  were  not  absolutely  ineffective  here,  for  they 
succeeded  in  stinging  his  soul  into  anger  and  rebellion;  but 
they  utterly  failed  to  accomplish  the  purpose  for  which  they 
were  intended.  On  the  contrary,  they  confirmed  him  in  the 
wish  which,  half  in  jest  half  in  earnest,  had  moved  him  to 
give  his  life  into  the  hands  of  Gladys  Vernon. 

He  was  a man  of  sudden  impulses,  romantic  fancies,  and 
very  hasty  action  which  was  united  with  an  indolent  and 
vaguely  philosophic  temper.  The  letter  was  imperious,  re- 
proachful and  passionate.  It  produced  on  him  the  opposite 
effect  that  it  was  intended  to  produce  on  him.  It  made  him 
.angry,  irritated,  and  desirous  to  assert  an  independence 
which  every  word  in  it  refused  to  him.  Guilderoy,  like  many 
men  wTho  are  tender  of  heart  aud  }^et  unconsciously  selfish, 
was  easily  led  but  was  difficult  to  drive.  If  he  felt  coerced  he 
rebelled  instantly.  Tact  and  persuasion  might  lead  him 
long,  but  the  instant  he  felt  that  there  was  any  effort  to  co- 
erce him  by  force  he  grew  restive,  and  men  much  less  amia- 
ble and  gentle  were  much  easier  to  direct  and  command  than 
he.  His  correspondent  made  the  supreme  error  of  exacting 
as  a right  what  had  no  charm  unless  it  were  voluntary,  and 
claiming  as  a due  what  was  nothing  if  it  were  not  a gift. 
The  wood-dove  was  right  in  its  choice,  he  thought,  but  only 
right  as  long  as  his  companion  pleases  him  and  leaves  him 
free.  If  she  fastens  a fetter  on  his  foot,  the  very  fussing 
and  fretting  of  the  sparrows  were  better  than  the  columba- 
rium in  the  clouds. 

He  shrank  from  the  intent  to  rule  and  hold  him  which  was 
so  visible  in  the  letter  he  had  just  received  ; he  felt  a ve- 
hement desire  to  vindicate  his  liberty  against  the  claims 
which  she  so  obviously  showed  her  intention  to  lay  upon  it 
forever,  or  at  least  for  such  a “ forever  as  her  pride  and 
her  passion  might  desire  and  demand  from  the  future.  He 
was  a Launcelot  whom  Guinevere  might  have  bound  forever 
to  her  girdle  if  she  had  never  let  him  feel  that  there  was  a 
chain  under  the  silken  leash.  But  as  every  Guinevere  had 
been  so  rash  and  so  blind  as  to  let  him  feel  it  ana  he  galled 


GUILbEnOY.  73 

by  it,  each  had  5n  turn  had  his  allegiance  but  a brief  while. 
The  Duchess  Soria  had  had  it  longer  than  any  other. 

She  had  many  advantages.  She  lived  farther  away  from 
him  than  most ; she  had  greater  beauty  than  most ; and  she 
had  that  eminence  of  social  position  which  raises  a woman  so 
high  that  no  lover  can  doubt  her  sincerity  in  her  selection  of 
him,  or  her  facilities  for  replacing  him  by  others  if  she  chose. 
These  advantages  had  made  her  reign  over  his  passions  and 
command  his  allegiance  longer  than  any  other  woman  had 
done.  It  had  been  always  understood  that  if  Hugo  Soria 
died,  Guilderoy  would  ratify  his  devotion  by  marriage ; but 
he  himself  had  never  cared  to  contemplate  that  probability  ; 
for  the  rest,  Soria  was  almost  as  young  as  he  was  himself, 
and  there  was  no  apparent  likelihood  of  his  freeing  his  wife 
of  his  presence  on  earth,  unless  some  unforeseen  accident  or 
some  duel  ending  fatally  were  to  prematurely  cut  short  the 
measure  of  his  days.  Had  he  died,  the  world  and  Beatrice 
Soria  herself  would  have  expected  her  lover  to  replace  him ; 
the  certainty  with  which  she  would  have  expected  this  al- 
lowed a too  dominant  and  insistent  tone  of  appropriation  to 
show  now  through  the  lines  of  her  letter,  and  raised  in  the 
feelings  of  its  reader  that  instinct  of  rebellion  which  lies  in 
the  breast  of  all  men.  His  intimacy  with  her  had  lasted 
years  enough  for  many  faults  in  her  character  to  have  become 
revealed  to  him.  He  had  had  time  to  outlive  the  belief  in 
those  perfections  which  every  man  who  is  much  in  love  at- 
tributes to  his  mistress;' he  knew  her  to  be  imperious,  exact- 
ing, and  perilous  and  disdainful  when  offended.  They  were 
defects  which  in  daily  life  poison  peace  more  cruelly  than  any 
others. 

Beatrice  Soria  in  Paris  or  Naples,  visited  at  intervals  and 
seen  only  in  her  superb  bloom  of  beauty,  had  a great  and  irre- 
sistible sorcery  for  him,  but  Beatrice  Soria  as  the  eternal 
companion  of  his  fate  would  have  alienated  and  have  irritated 
him  unbearably. 

Or,  at  the  least,  he  thought  so  now,  as  his  conscience 
smarted  and  his  impatience  rebelled  under  the  lash  of  her  in* 
passioned  reproaches  and  recall* 


74 


GUILDEROY. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

a I swear  that  I will  make  your  daughter  happy,  if  humaa 
means  can  command  happiness/*  said  Guilderoy  a few  days 
later  when  they  were  alone. 

4i  For  six  months,  perhaps/*  said  Yernon  with  impatience. 

“ Why  do  you  doubt  me  so  ? **  said  Guilderoy,  offended 
and  pained. 

“ I do  not  doubt  you  in  especial.  You  are  possibly  gentler 
and  kinder  than  most  men.  But  you  are  mortal,  and  you 
cannot  prevent  the  divergence  of  character,  the  satiety  of 
habit,  the  destruction  of  illusions,  the  growth  of  new  pas- 
sions— all  which  is  inevitable  in  human  nature,  and  in  utter 
defiance  of  which  marriage,  the  supreme  idiotcy  of  social  laws, 
has  been  made  eternal ! ** 

a You  are  not  encouraging.7* 

“I  desire  so  little  to  encourage/*  said  John  Vernon  with 
6ome  violence,  “ that  if  you  will  take  back  this  evening  the 
promise  you  have  given  my  child  this  afternoon,  far  from 
blaming  or  reproaching  you,  I shall  thank  you.  She  does 
not  care  for  you.  You  flatter  and  dazzle  her,  and  she  is  in 
love  with  your  house,  but  she  would  forget  you  in  a week 
if  you  withdrew  your  word.  Withdraw  it;  both  she  and 
you  will  be  spared  much  sorrow.** 

“ Your  prophecies  are  painful  to  me/*  said  Guilderoy ; 
“ but  I will  risk  their  realization.  I think  she  loves  me  already 
as  far  as  a child  of  her  years  can  understand  love.  She  would 
be  less  innocent  than  she  is  if  she  loved  me  more.  I have 
had  enough  of  passion — too  much  of  it.  I desire  repose.** 

“ And  in  six  months*  time  you  will  say,  6 1 am  tired  of  re- 
pose:  give  me  passion.*** 

“ And  do  you  think  so  lovely  a ereature  incapable  of  in- 
spiring it  ? ** 

“I  think  she  will  be  incapable  of  inspiring  it  in  you  be- 
cause she  will  be  your  wife/*  replied  John  Yernon. 

His  heart  was  heavy  and  his  forebodings  were  founded  on 
his  knowledge  of  mankind.  He  was  well  aware  that  his  dis- 
like to  such  a marriage  for  his  child  was  ingratitude  to  fate 


GUI  L DEBOY. 


71 


and  would  have  seemed  to  most  men  a kind  of  madness.  He 
was  well  aware  that  the  future  of  his  young  daughter  had 
been  often  a subject  of  disquietude  and  anxiety  to  him,  and 
that,  in  a worldly  sense,  no  destiny  more  brilliant  than  this 
now  offered  could  be  desired  for  her. 

But  he  despised  worldly  advantages,  lie  had  learned  to 
know  that  happiness  comes  from  within,  not  without.  He  con- 
sidered that  the  contentment  which  she  had  learned  with  him- 
self to  feel  amongst  simple  things  and  homely  joys  was  worth 
more  than  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  a great  position.  He 
did  justice  to  the  generosity  and  gentleness  of  Guilderoy’s 
temperament,  but  he  did  not  believe  in  its  stability  or  in  its 
loyalty  ; nay,  he  believed  in  no  man’s,  because  he  knew  that 
the  affections,  like  the  senses,  are  beyond  our  own  control.  He 
saw  a thousand  reasons  why  this  union  should  become  a 
source  of  ultimate  regret  and  unhappiness  to  both  of  them. 
He  saw  few  probabilities  that  it  would  end  otherwise  than  in 
estrangement  and  disappointment  to  both  of  them. 

“ The  child  is  wholly  unfit  for  your  position,”  he  said  angrily. 
“ She  knows  the  names  and  qualities  of  all  the  apples  in 
England,  and  she  knows  something  of  the  history  of  England 
from  first  sources  ; but  she  knows  next  to  nothing  more,  and 
no  one  wants  to  hear  of  pippins  and  russets  or  of  Hengist  and 
Horsa  in  your  world.  Go  away,  my  dear  lord,  and  you  will 
have  forgotten  that  she  existed  in  ten  days’  time. 

“ She  has  not  an  idea  of  what  you  mean,”  he  added  bitterly. 
“Marriage  is  only  a word  to  her.  She  thinks  of  living  in 
Ladysrood  as  a child  of  five  years  old  would  think  of  it — as  a 
delightful  and  roomy  play-place.  All  that  ignorance  will 
excite  you  and  interest  you  entirely  for  a few  weeks — I know 
that — but  at  the  end  of  those  weeks  you  will  ask  yourself 
angrily  why  you  took  a country  child  to  make  you  ridiculous. 
When  you  have  dissipated  the  ignorance,  what  remains  be- 
hind will  not  interest  you  in  the  least.  You  will  begin  to 
expect  a woman’s  wisdom  and  patience  in  her,  and  you  will 
not  find  them — children  are  never  patient  or  wise.  You 
think  me  a prophet  of  ill.  I am  one,  certainly.  It  is  utterly 
impossible  that  a girl  like  her  and  a man  like  you  can  live 
together  without  bitter  disappointment  and  endless  friction.” 

“ She  is  too  young ! She  is  too  young  ! ” he  repeated  to 
himself  again  and  again  that  night  on  his  return  from  Ladys- 
rood. He  had  said  nothing  to  the  child  alone — what  was  the 


76 


GUILDEROY. 


use  of  questioning  her  ? She  did  not  know  her  own  heart : 
how  could  she  answer  for  it  ? 

“ You  are  not  glad  ? ” she  asked  him  wistfully  when  she 
came  to  bid  him  good-night.  He  looked  away  from  her  and 
drew  her  head  down  on  his  breast  and  kissed  her  curls. 

“ I hope  you  may  be  as  happy,  my  darling,  with  him  as 
you  have  been  with  me.  I do  not  think  you  can  be  more 
so,”  he  said  tenderly,  and  said  nothing  more.  What  use  was 
it  to  alarm  her  young  soul  with  suggestions  of  perils  and  sor- 
rows which  she  would  be  wholly  unable  to  understand  ? Life 
looked  to  her  like  the  gilded  and  illuminated  pages  of  the 
Ladysrood  missal.  Why  tell  her  that  these  pages  would  be 
stained  and  blotted  by  tears  ? 

In  the  little  parlor  of  Christslea  Gilderoy  and  John  Yernon 
sat  long  in  conversation  that  evening. 

Neither  convinced  the  other. 

The  incipient  friendship  which  had  begun  to  grow  up  be- 
tween them  had  been  disturbed  and  diminished  by  the  pre- 
cipitancy of  the  one  and  the  opposition  of  the  other.  Vernon 
considered  himself  dealt  with  in  bad  faith,  and  Guilderoy 
grew  impatient  at  the  discontent  with  which  his  proposals 
were  received. 

“ Does  he  think  it  would  be  a happier  fate  to  have  all  her 
youth  pass  away  in  this  little  combe  by  the  sea  with  no  com- 
panions but  the  gulls  and  the  rabbits  ? ” he  thought,  with  a 
not  unnatural  sense  that  the  immense  gifts  brought  in  his 
own  hands  were  too  little  appreciated,  whilst  yet  he  respected 
all  the  more  a man  who  accounted  material  and  social  ad- 
vantages as  of  so  little  avail. 

It  was  in  vain  that  he  offered  the  most  princely  presents 
to  her  and  promised  to  render  her,  as  far  as  fortune  went, 
wholly  independent  of  himself. 

John  Yernon  heard  all  this  with  little  patience. 

“I  do  not  doubt  your  generosity  or  your  justice,”  he  said 
more  than  once.  u I have  told  you  before,  I am  convinced 
that  you  are  not  a man  to  injure  or  to  defraud  a woman. 
But  against  what  I fear  you  can  give  no  possible  guarantees. 
You  wish  for  Gladys  at  this  moment  as  you  have  wished  for 
a hundred  women  before  her  and  will  wish  for  a hundred 
women  after  her.  You  will  tell  me  that  you  feel  differently 
to  her  to  what  you  have  done  to  others,  and  no  doubt  you  be- 
lieve it ; but  you  are  mistaken.  You  feel  precisely  the  same, 


GU1LDKR0T.  77 

and  your  caprice  will  pass  as  all  your  other  caprices  have 
done.” 

“ Will  you  not  allow  me  even  to  know  my  own  emotions  ? ” 
said  Guilderoy  with  anger.  “And  will  you  tell  me  what 
greater  proof  any  man  can  give  of  the  honesty  of  his  emo- 
tions than  to  desire  to  make  anyone  his  wife  whom  he  loves  ? ” 

“ That  is  quite  true,”  replied  her  father,  “ and  I do  not 
question  your  present  sincerity — I cannot  do  so  in  face  of  the 
evidences  you  are  willing  to  give  of  it.  But  I do  not  think 
that  your  emotions  are  of  the  kind  you  fancy  them,  and  I 
am  wholty  certain  that  my  poor  child  will  not  have  the  knowl- 
edge, the  character,  or  the  education  in  her  which  could  alone 
enable  a woman  to  keep  her  hold  on  the  affections  of  such  a 
man  as  you.  Remember  what  the  Master  of  Love  said — 

Ut  levis,  absumtis  paulatim  viribus,  ignis 
Ipse  latet,  summo  candet  in  igne  cinis  ; 

Sed  tamen  extinctas,  admoto  sulphure,  flammas 
Invenit,  et  lumen,  quod  fuit  ante,  redit. 

My  child  will  not  know  how  to  throw  the  sulphur  on  the  fad- 
ing flames,  and  your  fire  will  die  out  on  her  altar.” 

“ I am  tired  of  the  syrens  who  throw  the  sulphur,”  replied 
Guilderoy.  “ ‘ Et  puer  et  nudus  est  amor/  I want  the 
innocence  of  extreme  youth  and  the  divine  nudity  of  a soul 
which  has  nothing  to  conceal.  Give  them  to  me  and  I will 
respect  them.”  ♦ 

John  Vernon  sighed  impatiently  and  abandoned  the 
argument. 

He  did  not  doubt  the  entire  good  faith  of  his  companion, 
but  he  was  none  the  less  certain  of  the  truth  of  his  own  pre- 
dictions. Guilderoy  wished  for  these  things  as  a child  wishes 
for  playthings,  but  they  would  have  no  more  power  to 
secure  his  constancy  than  the  toy  to  charm  the  child  forever. 
But  with  Love,  as  with  anger,  he  knew  that  it  was  waste 
of  breath  to  argue. 

Guilderoy  read  the  last  letter  of  Beatrice  Soria  many  times 
when  he  sat  in  the  solitude  of  the  library  on  the  evening  of 
that  day.  It  did  not  touch  his  heart ; it  disturbed  his 
temper.  It  made  him  feel  blamable  and  selfish,  but  it  did 
not  make  him  feel  regretful  or  repentant.  He  laid  the  paper 
down  before  him  under  the  light,  and  then  looked  up  from  it 
to  the  window  far  off,  where  Gladys  had  sat  a week  or  two 
before  and  he  had  held  the  great  missal  upon  her  knee. 

The  embrasure  of  the  window  was  shrouded  in  the  dark 


78 


GUILDEEOT. 


velvet  curtains  which  the  servants  had  drawn  at  nightfall, 
hut  he  seemed  to  see  her  tall,  slender,  stooping  form  seated 
there,  her  golden-haired  head,  her  face  with  its  first  sudden 
blush.  He  was  not  in  love  with  her : no,  it  did  not  seem  to 
him  that  even  yet  his  new  feeling  merited  that  name,  but  he 
was  haunted  by  the  thought  of  her,  distressed  by  the  desire  of 
her.  She  was  unlike  anything  of  her  sex  that  he  had  ever 
known,  and  she  seemed  already  a part  of  Ladysrood  like  its 
marble  figures  of  Florence  and  its  old  sweet  roses  of  France. 

He  hesitated  no  more,  but  drew  pen  and  paper  to  him  and 
began  to  answer  the  letter  which  lay  under  his  hand.  It  was 
not  an  easy  task.  To  say  to  a woman  who  loves  him  that  he 
not  only  loves  her  no  longer,  but  has  transferred  his  allegiance 
elsewhere,  is  painful  to  any  man  who  has  a conscience  and  a 
memory. 

He  had  those  vague  sentiments  of  inclination  to  the  refresh- 
ment of  repose,  of  pure  affections,  and  of  family  ties  which 
visit  at  times  all  men  who  have  imagination  and  emotions, 
and  which  are  perhaps  the  most  utterly  delusive  and  mis- 
leading of  all  their  fancies. 

Again  and  again  has  the  mirage  of  innocent  and  lawful 
joys  passed  alluringly  before  the  eyes  of  a tired  man  of  the 
world,  and  has  been  followed  by  him  only  to  bring  him  to 
the  desert  sands  of  monotony,  of  weariness,  and  of  thraldom. 

He  was  perfectly  sincere  when  he  assured  John  Vernon  of 
his  indifference  to  the  passions  and  the  pleasures  of  which 
his  life  had  hitherto  been  so  full,  and  of  his  wishes,  for  a 
simpler,  purer,  and  more  legitimate  attachment  than  those 
which  he  had  known.  But  though  he  had  not  any  intention 
of  deceiving  others,  he  did  so,  because  he  deceived  himself, 
and  took  what  was  but  a mere  passing  phase  of  imagination 
for  a lasting  alteration  in  his  temperament. 

Was  it  true  that  of  this  child  he  really  knew  no  more  than 
of  a shut  book,  of  which  the  exterior  pleased  him  ? Was  it 
possible  that  with  the  passing  of  the  years  he  would  grow 
farther  and  farther  from  her,  rather  than  she  nearer  and 
nearer  to  him  ? His  reason  and  his  observation  of  the  lives 
of  others  told  him  that  it  was  very  possible. 

Fancy  and  admiration  had  hurried  him  into  an  action  in 
which  opposition  had  confirmed  his  persistency.  But  now 
that  in  cold  blood  he  looked  at  his  future,  he  could  not  feel 
sure  that  he  would  never  repent  an  act  which  gave  power 
over  it  into  the  hands  of  a child  whose  affections  even  were 


GUILDEJROT . 79 

scarcely  his,  and  of  the  tenacity  of  whose  character  he  had 
had  evidence. 

He  desired  to  possess  her  beauty,  and  he  was  fascinated  by 
the  courage  and  the  simplicity  which  he  saw  in  her  ; but  the 
prophecies  of  John  Vernon  haunted  and  disquieted  him,  and 
his  knowledge  of  his  own  temperament  told  him  that  they 
were  not  unlikely  to  be  true  hereafter. 

How  much  of  mere  caprice,  of  sheer  waywardness,  of 
momentary  impatience,  of  existing  ties,  and  of  amusement  at 
irritating  the  opposition  of  his  sister  had  there  not  been 
mingled  with  the  more  poetic  and  personal  feelings  which 
had  first  sent  him  to  Christslea  ? 

“ After  all,  it  is  the  folly  of  life  which  lends  charm  to  it,” 
he  thought ; but  he  felt  that  if  John  Vernon  had  been  able 
to  know  his  thoughts  he  would  have  told  him  that  the  love 
which  does  not  blindly  believe  itself  to  be  the  highest  wisdom 
of  life  has  the  seeds  of  death  in  it  at  its  birth. 

Indeed,  he  was  well  aware  of  it  himself. 

The  warning  words  produced  a vague  effect  upon  him. 

He  felt  vaguely  that  the  future  might  justify  them,  and 
although  he  had  been  so  self-willed  in  following  out  his 
caprice,  he  almost  regretted  now  that  fate  had  granted  him 
his  wishes. 

Had  he  mistaken  a momentary  desire  for  a strength  of 
feeling  sueh  as  was  needed  to  outlast  the  stress  of  time  ? 

In  vain  he  told  himself  that  Beatrice  Soria  had  no  claim  of 
any  sort  upon  him ; he  knew  that  the  mere  absence  of  claim 
constituted  her  strongest  title  to  his  fidelity  ; he  knew  more- 
over that  his  relations  with  her  had  touched  her  heart  and 
her  passions  profoundly,  whatever  they  had  done  to  his  own. 

He  was  tired  of  those  relations ; they  had  a side  to  them 
which  wearied  and  irritated  him  ; he  had  resolved  in  his  own 
mind  to  go  back  to  her  no  more,  because  recrimination  and 
reproach  had  of  late  formed  the  staple  of  her  welcome.  Yet 
the  announcement  of  his  marriage  was  very  difficult  for  him 
to  make,  and  now  and  again  he  pushed  the  paper  from  him 
and  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hands  and  saw  the  eyes  of  his 
forsaken  love  burning  on  him  through  the  dark.  She  had 
not  been  alone  in  his  affections,  but  she  had  been  chief  in 
them  ; and  he  knew  that  he  had  reigned  supreme  in  hers^ 
The  letter  of  farewell  which  he  was  compelled  to  compose 
seemed  a cowardice.  It  was  the  kind  of  letter  which  a 
gentleman  cannot  write  without  feeling  that  he  loses  some- 


80 


GtTiLbmor. 


tiling  in  his  own  self-esteem  by  writing  it ; indeed,  the 
more  truly  he  is  a gentleman  the  more  acutely  he  will  feel 
this. 

But  despite  his  reluctance  and  the  difficulty  of  the  task,  it 
was  written  at  last,  and  when  it  had  gone  away  from  him 
irrevocably  in  the  post-bag,  with  which  a lad  rode  fifteen 
miles  over  the  moors  every  morning,  he  had  a sense  of  relief; 
of  such  relief  as  comes  from  a decision  taken  without  power 
to  undo  or  to  modify  it. 

What  would  she  answer  ? 

He  counted  the  days  which  must  elapse  before  a reply 
could  reach  him,  and  opened  the  letter-bag  with  anxiety 
when  those  days  had  passed.  To  his  astonishment  he  re- 
ceived no  answer  at  all ; days  became  weeks,  weeks  months, 
and  silence  alone  followed  on  his  declaration  of  self- chosen 
and  deliberate  inconstancy.  Such  silence  made  him  uneasy 
and  apprehensive.  He  knew  that  it  was  not  the  silence  of 
indifference ; and,  if  not  that,  then  what  must  it  portend  ? 

Once  or  twice  he  was  tempted  to  break  it  by  writing  again 
himself.  But  this  he  felt  it  w^as  impossible  to  do  ; no  man  can 
insist  on,  or  emphasize  by  unasked  repetition,  his  own 
avowal  of  mutability  and  voluntary  faithlessness.  Silence 
was,  at  least,  acquiescence  and  permission. 

He  had  sought  these  and  he  could  not  quarrel  with  receiv- 
ing them.  Meanwhile  he  felt  free  to  do  what  he  was  bent  on 
doing,  and  used  all  his  powers  of  persuasion  to  induce  Yernon 
to  shorten  his  probation. 

Yernon  was  very  reluctant  to  do  so. 

“She  does  not  love  you.  She  does  not  know  what  love 
is.  You  mistake  if  you  fancy  she  does,”  he  said  to  Guilde- 
roy,  who  smiled. 

“ I will  teach  her,”  he  answered. 

“ Yes,”  said  John  Yernon,  with  pain  and  impatience,  “ and 
when  she  has  learned  the  lesson  it  will  have  grown  dull  to 
you,  and  the  teacher  will  go  elsewhere.  What  is  the  cause 
of  half  the  misery  of  women  ? That  their  love  is  so  much 
more  tenacious  than  the  man’s  ; it  grows  stronger  as  his 
grows  weaker.  He  desires  one  thing  which  is  quickly  satis- 
fied ; she  desires  innumerable  things  which  can  never  be 
satisfied : and  among  them  as  the  most  mythical  and  the 
most  impossible  she  desires — poor  soul ! — the  man’s  con- 
stancy ! ” 

Where  other  men  would  only  have  seen  the  gain  and  hostor 


GUILDEROT. 


81 


of  such  a marriage,  he  saw  the  gray  cloud  of  possible,  of  most 
probable,  unhappiness.  As  he  walked  in  calm,  dark- evenings 
by  the  little  bay  beneath  his  house,  the  murmur  of  the  waves 
sounded  mournfully  on  his  ear ; and  as  he  looked  up  at  the 
attic  window  of  his  daughter’s  room,  shrouded  in  the  ivy  of 
the  eaves,  it  was  no  mere  selfish  sense  of’  his  own  coming 
loneliness  which  made  him  wish  to  heaven  that  Guilderoy 
had  never  come  across  her  path. 

Happiness,  is  not  a thing  to  be  commanded,  he  thought, 
with  sadness  and  anxiety,  to  be  obtained  by  any  ingenuity, 
or  retained  by  any  obedience  to  precept  or  to  duty.  It  is  the 
most  spontaneous  thing  on  earth ; born  only  of  the  sym- 
pathies of  two  natures  which  mutually  supply  each  other’s 
needs ; it  is  like  the  sunshine  and  the  shower,  and  can  no 
more  be  brought  into  human  life  by  any  endeavor  than  they 
can  be  brought  on  earth  by  the  efforts  of  science.  Happiness 
is  the  dew  of  the  heart,  making  all  things  green  spring 
where  once  the  soil  was  barren ; but  it  is  not  in  human  nat- 
ure to  create  it  at  will,  and  it  is  a gift  of  destiny  like  genius 
or  beauty. 

True,  ingrates  mar  the  gift,  as  in  the  fairy  story  the  talis- 
man is  lost  by  careless  keeping  ; but  it  comes  to  none  at 
prayer,  at  exercise  of  will ; it  is  a treasure  of  the  gods,  and 
alas  ! Deos  ridere  credo , quum  infelix  vocat. 

But  Yernon’s  wishes  and  his  regrets  could  not  stay  the 
flight  of  time,  nor  change  a caprice  which  opposition  or  warn- 
ing only  served  to  inflame ; and  before  he  was  wholly  sensible 
that  the  winter  was  gone,  violets  and  hepatica  were  abloom 
in  his  orchard  grass,  and  the  little  fishing  fleet  were  setting 
out  for  its  springtide  harvest  of  the  sea,  and  March  was 
ended,  and  Guilderoy  claimed  from  him  a promise  which  he 
had  no  choice  but  to  fulfil. 

They  were  married  in  the  private  chapel  of  Ladysrood 
with  no  one  present  by  her  father’s  wish  except  himself  and 
the  old  servants  of  the  house,  and  she  wore  the  white  cambric 
frock  which  she  had  for  her  best  summer  Sundays  at  Christs- 
lea,  and  about  the  throat  of  it  were  strings  of  pearls  which 
Guilderoy  had  given  her,  and  which  were  worthy  a queen’s 
regalia. 

The  heart  of  John  Yernon  was  heavy  as  he  left  them  to 
themselves,  and  took  his  way  back  to  his  solitary  house 
through  the  budding  woods,  over  the  wide  moors  lying  in  the 
pale  afternoon  sunlight,  while  the  sound  of  the  more  distant 


82 


GUILDEROT. 


sea  came  like  human  sighs  through  the  rural  silence  to  his 
ears.  There  was  the  scent  of  violets  on  the  wind  and  the 
golden  gleam  of  gorse  in  the  landscape;  ever  and  anon  he 
came  in  sight  of  the  sea,  gray  and  still,  red  sails  and  white 
crossing  it  noiselessly.  The  day  was  clear  and  soft  and  mild, 
the  scene  was  fair,  and  yet  the  sense  of  a great  sadness 
weighed  upon  him  as  he  left  his  child  the  mistress  of  all 
these  spreading  woods  and  stately  towers  and  pleasant  gar- 
dens which  lay  behind  him  under  the  pale  gray  skies. 

The  world,  he  knew,  would  tell  him,  with  all  its  myriad  voices, 
that  he  had,  in  his  solitude  and  poverty,  had  a stroke  of  the 
most  marvellous  good  fortune,  a social  triumph  such  as  most 
would  prize  and  covet  beyond  all  things.  But  John  Vernon 
did  not  see  as  the  world  sees,  and  he  would  with  much  surer 
confidence  and  greater  joy  have  known  that  his  daughter  had 
gone  to  a lovelier  fate,  where  the  world  would  have  never 
given  her  that  crown  of  envy  which  is  so  often  a crown  of 
thorns.  Never  again  would  the  little  simple  things  of  life 
make  her  happiness  ; never  again  would  she  run  through  the 
wet  grass  a mere  careless  child,  happy  because  a lamb  was 
born,  or  a sea-mouse  was  washed  up  by  the  tide,  or  the  first 
daffodils  blown  under  the  trees  of  the  orchard. 

The  world  despised  such  simple  things ; but,  then,  was  the 
world  right  ? Would  that  collar  of  pearls  which  was  fit  for  a 
queen  give  her  in  truth  half  the  pleasure  that  her  daisy  chains 
had  given  her  in  the  meadows  under  the  apple  bough  ? 

“ Nay,  I grow  old  and  shall  feel  lonely,  and  so  see  all 
things  in  shadow.  Life  can  stand  still  with  none  of  us,  with 
her  no  more  than  with  others,”  he  told  himself,  as  he  walked 
over  the  moors,  and  he  looked  at  the  yellow  gorse  shining  be- 
fore him  in  the  light  of  the  afternoon,  and  tried  to  hope  that 
“ straight  was  a path  of  gold  ” for  her. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Guildkroy  had  a palace  of  his  own  in  Venice,  placed  on  one 
of  the  curves  of  the  Grand  Canal,  one  of  the  oriental  palaces 
with  Moorish  windows  and  carved  and  painted  walls,  and  a 
water-story  of  white  marble,  with  great  pointed  doors  and 


GUILDEBOF. 


83 


wide  flights  of  water-steps,  and  at  its  side  one  of  the  lovely 
luxuriant  green  gardens  of  Venice,  with  acacia  and  cereus 
droopping  over  its  low  red  wall.  It  was  to  this  palace  of  his 
every  April  that  his  thoughts  turned  longingly,  and  it  was 
thither  that  he  took  Gladys  in  the  early  spring  days  of  the 
year.  It  seemed  to  him  the  most  fitting  place  that  love  and 
youth  could  find.  It  was  a spring-time  even  more  than 
usually  radiant,  fragrant,  and  mild,  and  the  Venetian  air  was 
full  of  the  scent  of  the  primroses  blooming  on  the  Brenta 
banks,  and  of  the  budding  narcissus  in  the  meadow  grass  of 
the  many  islands. 

It  was  a change  such  as  the  wand  of  any  Prospero  might 
have  caused,  which  suddenly  carried  her  from  the  sea  mists 
and  bare  orchards  and  channel  winds  of  the  Christslea  shore, 
to  the  shining  waters,  the  liquid  sunshine,  the  gorgeous  mar- 
bles, and  the  cloudless  moonlight  evenings  of  the  Adriatic 
city. 

The  charm  of  Venice  is  one  of  those  emotions  which  must 
be  felt,  not  told,  which  are  too  delicate,  too  intricate  and  too 
romantic  to  be  ever  coldly  dissected  and  described. 

Venice  escapes  alike  the  poet  and  the  painter.  They  may 
portray  her  past  and  paint  her  water-ways,  but  they  cannot 
embody  her  fugitive  and  unutterable  fascination,  any  more 
than  they  can  give  on  canvas  that  faint  red  glow,  those  silvery 
dove-hued  waters,  that  dreamy  and  exquisite  silence,  those 
ethereal  visions  of  evening  on  sea  and  land. 

The  balmy  air,  the  radiant  light,  the  slow  soft  motion  of 
the  pliant  gondola,  the  amorous  music  floating  down  the 
moonlit  water,  the  shadowy  splendor  of  the  stately  frescoed 
chambers,  were  all  in  the  sharpest  and  strongest  contrast 
with  the  rude  coast,  the  gray  boisterous  water,  the  simple 
ways  and  the  narrow  rooms,  the  misty  mornings  and  the 
chilly  eves,  the  sober  colors  and  the  sombre  moorlands  of  her 
English  home.  It  was  a sensation  which  charmed  yet  hurt 
her  ; she  felt  much  as  one  of  her  o^n  pigeons  from  Christslea, 
brought  from  the  shady  roost  under  the  thatch  to  dwell 
amongst  the  pigeons  of  St.  Mark  would  have  felt  amongst 
the  marble  lodges,  the  gilded  pinnacles,  the  bewildering  sun- 
shine, and  the  glittering  mosaics. 

She  wished  with  all  her  soul  that  he  had  let  her  spend 
these  springtide  weeks  in  the  budding  gardens  and  the  se- 
cluded rooms  of  Ladysrood.  There  she  would  have  felt  less 
frightened,  more  familiar  j here  the  intense  light  seemed  like 


84 


GUILD  EBOY. 


a million  curio ut?  creatures  all  staring  at  her,  and  when  the 
bold  eyes  of  the  gondoliers  looked  at  her  with  a smile  in  them 
she  felt  herself  color  scarlet  as  at  some  violating  touch. 

Guilderoy,  who  had  felt  from  his  earliest  years  the  magic 
of  the  Adriatic,  grew  impatient  with  his  companion  that  she 
seemed  so  little  sensible  of  it,  and  sighed  for  the  elm-tree 
boles  and  primrose  roots  of  wet  dim  English  fields. 

It  was  not  insensibility,  but  for  once  his  discernment  was 
not  profound  enough  to  let  him  see  this.  The  girl  was  be- 
wildered and  inarticulate  rather  from  excess  of  emotion  than 
of  lack  of  it,  and  longed  for  the  familiar  landscapes  of  her 
short  past  from  the  same  instinct  as  makes  a stray  animal 
seek  its  homing  pastures. 

The  scenes  around  her  were  too  beautiful  and  intoxicating 
for  her  to  know  how  to  bear  them,  even  as  were  the  ardors 
of  those  new  passions  which  had  whirled  her  from  childhood 
into  womanhood  at  a bound. 

Guilderoy  was  as  far  from  divining  what  she  felt  as  were 
the  men  whose  oars  took  them  through  the  shining  waters. 
She  remained  shyer  than  he  wished;  he  was  half  impatient 
of  it  as  insensibility,  but  all  the  mute  vague  passions,  the 
unspoken  emotions,  the  timidity  at  her  own  sensations,  and 
the  shrinking  from  all  observation  which  were  in  her,  he 
knew  and  heeded  very  little. 

She  never  looked  back  in  after  times  to  those  weeks  in 
Venice  without  a sense  of  them  as  of  some  dream  too  beau- 
tiful and  marvellous  ever  to  be  repeated,  and  yet  with  a vague 
awe  and  terror  touching  its  beauty  with  a darkness  that  en- 
hanced its  light.  She  never  in  after  days  saw  the  gold  sun- 
beams ripple  on  the  silvery  surface  of  the  lagoons,  or  the 
marbles  of  St.  Mark  shine  white  beneath  the  moon,  without 
the  remembrance  of  the  half-unconscious  rapture,  and  the 
bewildered  embarrassment  and  apprehension  which  she  had 
felt  in  that  April  time  of  love. 

66  You  have  never  yet  told  me  that  you  love  me  ! ??  he  said  to 
her  once  with  some  amusement  and  some  annoyance  blended 
in  his  thought. 

She  looked  up  a moment,  then  ner  eyelids  fell. 

(( I can  feel  but  I cannot  speak, ” she  might  have  an- 
swered had  she  not  been  too  shy,  but  shyness  held  her 
silent. 

“ I wonder  what  she  does  feel/’  he  thought,  rather  with 
curiosity  than  with  emotion.  “It  is  almost  like  making 


GUILDEROY. 


85 


love  to  a statue  or  a corpse,  sh«  is  so  irresponsive.  She  is 
not  cold,  but  she  is  so  still,  one  cannot  tell  whether  it  is  her 
senses  which  are  still  asleep  or  her  affections.  She  is  rather 
alarmed  than  moved  to  any  pleasure,  and  yet  now  and  then, 
when  I glance  at  her  unawares,  there  is  a look  in  her  eyes 
that  is  like  love.  I suppose  the  truth  is  that  John  Vernon 
was  right — she  is  too  young.” 

But  however  young  she  might  be  she  was  very  lovely,  and 
her  absolute  passionlessness  and  stillness  at  the  present  time 
had  a seduction  for  him  which  was  in  a manner  morbid  and 
yet  sweet,  tantalizing  and  yet  alluring,  enhancing  his  pas- 
sions, though  failing  to  arouse  in  him  higher  and  stronger 
emotions.  He  did  not  understand  the  intense  shyness  which 
enveloped  her  as  a frost  encloses  and  sheets  over  a lake  ; the 
depths  of  the  water,  with  all  their  stirring  and  palpitating 
life  are  there  beneath,  but  so  covered  that  none  can  see  them. 
He  did  not  understand  the  mingled  terror  and  ecstacy  which 
his  own  love  was  to  her,  and  the  bewilderment  her  own  feel- 
ings and  agitation  were  to  her.  A man  less  impassioned  and 
more  patient  might  have  alarmed  her  less,  and  so  succeeded 
in  calling  out  the  timid  intensity  of  her  soul  into  actual  ex- 
pression; but  he  had  not  the  self-denial  or  the  patience 
requisite,  and  he  had  enveloped  her  in  the  fires  of  passion 
before  he  had  ever  sought  to  penetrate  the  arcana  of  her  wak- 
ing soul.  She  loved  him  with  all  the  force  of  her  nature,  but 
she  could  not  have  said  'so  to  save  her  life  ; and  with  this 
love,  which  had  so  suddenly  surged  up  in  her  and  over- 
whelmed her,  there  was  a sense  of  fear  mingled ; the  only 
fear  which  had  ever  touched  her  dauntless  and  courageous 
temper.  The  fear  was  sweet  to  her,  but  still  it  was  fear ; not 
fear  so  much  of  him  as  of  herself,  and  of  all  the  strange  emo- 
tions which  had  risen  in  her. 

If  she  could  have  spoken  what  she  felt,  she  would  have 
poured  out  poems  as  sweet  and  as  ardent  as  any  that  poet 
ever  penned.  But  timidity  and  ignorance  of  what  name  to 
give  her  own  emotions  held  her  mute,  and  he  remained  in 
doubt  as  to  whether  she  were  physically  cold  or  mentally  un- 
intelligent. Before  he  had  been  in  Venice  a month  he  re- 
membered with  regret  the  warning  which  her  father  had 
given  him  : “ You  will  soon  wish  for  those  who  can  thrust 
the  sulphur  on  the  fading  flames.” 

His  affection  for  her  had  increased  since  they  had  been  to- 
gether, for  he  had  recognized  since  then  more  fully  the  deli* 


86 


GUILDEROY. 


cac y,  the  honor  and  the  high  breeding  of  her  character,  but 
his  caprice  was  already  losing  something  of  its  attraction,  and 
his  passions  were  demanding  more  response  to  them. 

“ I strive  to  make  her  happy,”  he  wrote  to  John  Vernon* 
u but  I am  not  so  sure  as  I wish  to  be  that  I succeed.” 

John  Vernon  wrote  back  to  him  : 66  You  do  not  succeed 
because  you  have  called  on  a child’s  soul  for  a woman’s 
passions  : you  have  pulled  open  the  rose-bud  to  make  a full- 
blown rose.  It  is  impossible  that  your  rose  should  be 
perfect.” 

He  felt  some  impatience  of  her  entire  passiveness.  He 
wished  either  for  refusal  and  opposition  or  for  responsive 
passions  ; but  she  yielded  to  him  like  a slave,  and  yet  re- 
sponded no  more  in  feeling  than  if  she  were  a form  of  ivory 
or  wax.  It  was  seductive  from  its  strangeness  ; and  yet  it 
was,  he  foresaw,  what  in  a few  months  would  fatigue  him, 
and  be  insufficient  for  him. 

u It  is  a pity  that  we  need  go  home  so  soon,”  he  said  once 
with  regret. 

She  turned  to  him  with  a smile  : u Oh,  no ! Ladysrood  is 
even  dearer  than  this.” 

“ We  cannot  go  to  Ladysrood,”  said  Guilderoy  with  a 
little  impatience.  u You  must  be  seen  in  London.  I hate 
London.  It  is  the  antithesis  of  everything  I like  ; but,  if  you 
were  not  presented,  they  would  say  I had  married  a gipsy  or 
a gardener’s  daughter.” 

“ Would  that  matter  very  much  ! ” said  Gladys,  with  her 
delicate  eyebrows  drawn  a little  together. 

“ No,  I do  not  know  that  it  would  ; but  Englishmen  are  al- 
ways conventional,  even  when  they  don’t  know  it  ; all  men 
are,  indeed,  who  belong  to  a certain  world.  I do  not  care 
what  people  say — no  man  cares  less  ; and  yet  I feel  that  I 
should  be  irritated  if  they  talked  nonsense  about  me.” 

Gladys  was  silent.  Her  feelings  were  all  primitive  and 
direct.  She  was  far  from  understanding  complexity  of  senti- 
ment or  the  existence  of  two  morbid  yet  contradictory  feelings 
at  the  same  moment. 

u I love  Ladysrood,”  she  said,  with  a great  longing  in  her 
voice,  u and  I love  the  country.  All  the  time  we  have  been 
here  I have  been  thinking  o£  that  line  of  Browning’s  : — 

“ Oh,  to  be  in  England,  now  that  Aprils  there  J *• 

Guilderoy  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 


GUILBEBOY . 


87 


I did  not  know  you  had  read  Browning.  He  is  not  a 
child's  poet.  And,  my  dear,  do  not  set  your  heart  on  living 
at  Ladysrood.  I told  you  honestly,  you  will  remember,  that 
1 could  not  promise  to  be  often  there." 

“ Yes,  I remember.5' 

A shadow  passed  over  her  face — not  of  resentment,  but  of 
disappointment,  which  troubled  him  more. 

“ You  will  enjoy  the  world  when  you  know  it,"  he  said 
consolingly.  “ All  women  do.  There  are  things  besides 
daisies  and  buttercups  that  will  please  you.  The  country  is 
infinitely  soothing  when  one  is  ill  or  unhappy,  or  has  failed 
to  attain  anything  one  wanted  : but  it  is  tedious  and  its*  out- 
look is  narrow.  Imperceptibly  one  adopts  the  small  views 
which  make  up  its  world,  and  the  forces  of  one's  mind  get  nar- 
rowed to  suit  them.  And  the  country  in  England  is  so  much 
more  intolerable  than  anywhere  else,  because  the  weather 
is  so  bad  : to  endure  it  long  one  must  have  the  rusticity  of 
Wordsworth's  mind,  and  boots  and  stockings  as  homely." 

Gladys  did  not  reply.  She  looked  down  into  the  water 
through  which  she  was  drawing  her  left  hand,  taking  pleas- 
ure in  the  brushing  of  the  ribbon  weed  against  her  fingers. 

“ Do  you  really  dream  of  living  at  Ladysrood  all  the  year 
round  ? " he  asked  her,  impatiently. 

“ I should  like  it,"  she  said,  gently.  “ But  then,  of  course, 
I do  not  know  any  other  life  than  that  country  life." 

“ Ask  me  anything  else,"  said  Guilderoy,  “ but  not  that, 
for  heaven's  sake." 

“ I will  never  ask  you  anything.  My  father  told  me  not." 

“But  I wish  you  to  ask  me  for  anything  that  comes  into  your 
fancy,"  he  said  vaguely  irritated.  “ My  dear  child,  if  you 
and  I cannot  say  frankly  to  each  other  any  whim  or  folly 
which  comes  into  our  heads,  who  on  earth  should  do  so  ? 
There  is  no  happiness  possible,  Gladys,  where  there  is  any 
reserve." 

The  girl  was  silent,  her  fingers  playing  with  the  water 
weeds  on  the  limpid  shallows  of  the  lagoon. 

“ Do  you  understand  ? " he  continued,  still  impatiently, 
though  tenderly ; “ I wish  you  to  confide  in  me  all  your 
desires,  and,  as  far  as  it  is  mutually  possible,  I will  do  my 
utmost  to  gratify  them." 

“ You  are  very  good  to  me/'  said  Gladys  with  a little 
hesitation. 


OUILDEHOY 


“ That  is  not  the  language  of  love,”  said  Guilderoy  with 
annoyance. 

The  girl  colored ; her  lips  parted  to  speak,  hut  words 
failed  her.  She  longed  to  tell  him  that  she  loved  him  with 
all  her  soul,  so  far  as  youth  can  love,  but  she  was  shy  to  utter 
anything  she  felt.  She  seemed  to  him  less  intelligent,  and 
far  less  tender,  than  she  really  was. 

Guilderoy  had  himself  the  infinite  expectations  and  antici- 
pations which  belong  to  those  whose  feelings  are  rather  im- 
passioned than  profound,  and  whose  imagination  is  more 
vivid  than  their  constancy  is  durable.  But  he  had  not  the 
patience  which  is  often  necessary  for  the  full  comprehension 
of  character,  especially  of  character  which  is  half  developed 
and  still  growing. 

Every  day  the  memory  of  John  Vernon’s  philosophic 
warnings  recurred  more  often  to  him,  and  he  was  more  per- 
suaded of  their  truth.  And  yet  he  was  still  greatly  enamored 
of  her.  Her  physical  beauty  was  too  great  to  let  him  be 
otherwise,  and  the  sense  of  the  absolute  freshness  and  inno- 
cence of  all  her  nature  were  in  a sense  very  lovely  to  him 
after  the  many  women,  so  unlike  her,  whom  he  had  known. 

And  yet  there  was  something  wanting.  She  understood  so 
little,  she  responded  so  little,  she  was  still  so  much  more 
frightened  than  she  was  happy  at  the  dominance  of  love. 
He  felt  that  it  had  been  unwise  to  take  her  away  from  the 
simple,  childish,  unemotional  life  which  had  been  so  far 
more  suited  to  her  years.  Her  father  had  been  thoroughly 
right.  Guilderoy,  before  a week  was  out,  acknowledged  it 
to  his  own  soul.  A man  more  patient  and  less  voluptuous 
by  temperament  and  habit  than  he  was  might  have  seen  by 
intuition  into  all  the  treasures  of  her  unuttered  feelings,  but 
he  only  thought  her  impatiently  a child  whose  slumbering 
senses  and  alarmed  bashfulness  irritated  and  fatigued  him. 
The  startled  nymph  should,  to  please  his  taste,  have  grown 
suddenly  at  his  touch  into  a goddess,  and  she  did  not  do  so. 


GUILD  ER0T9 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

There  are  few  prettier  scenes  than  the  Piazzetta  of  San 
Marco  on  a summer’s  night.  The  gayety  of  the  sauntering 
crowds,  the  sparkling  of  the  many  lights,  the  animation  of 
the  cafes  and  the  colonnades,  the  sound  of  the  military 
music,  and  the  ring  of  the  spoons  on  the  platters  of  ice  or 
the  saucers  of  chocolate,  are  all  of  them  like  Paris  in  June  ; 
but  then  there  is  something  else,  too,  something  that  is  not  to 
be  found  in  Paris  or  anywhere  else  than  in  Venice;  there  are 
the  mighty  walls  and  columns  of  marble  towering  up  into 
the  blue  darkness  of  the  sky ; there  is  the  shaft  of  the  bell- 
tower,  seeming  to  stretch  and  touch  the  stars ; and  there  is 
the  sense  and  the  sound  of  the  sea  waves  close  at  hand; 
while  above — high  above  in  the  shadows — the  twin  lights 
which  have  burned  there  every  night  for  five  hundred  years 
for  the  soul  of  a murdered  man,  shine  as  steadily  as  the  twin 
stars  of  the  Pointers. 

So  much  has  been  rhymed  and  written  of  Venice  that 
nothing  hardly  is  left  to  say,  and  yet  with  it  all  so  little  has 
been  said,  because  so  little  can  its  singular  charm  and  grace 
be  ever  spoken  in  words  ; the  spell  of  the  terrors  of  the  past 
which  lie  so  close  to  the  mirth  of  the  present,  the  sense  of 
the  wide  sea  waste  and  the  wild  sea  winds  which  lie  so  close 
to  the  jewelled  altars  and  the  porphyry  palaces,  and  the 
sweet  faces  of  the  women  of  Titian,  and  the  mirth  of  the 
boatmen  of  Mazzorbo  pushing  their  fruit  and  their  fish  up 
the  market  stairs  by  the  Rialto. 

This  is  the  subtle  and  marvelous  charm  of  Venice  which 
has  not  been  caught  in  the  words  of  Consuelo,  nor  in  the 
volumes  of  Ruskin,  nor  in  the  verse  of  Musset,  nor  in  the 
tragedy  of  Shakspeare,  nor  in  any  printed  page  of  human 
genius. 

One  evening  they  sat  in  the  Piazzetta,  with  the  soft  sea- 
born day  fading  in  faint  roseate  sky,  and  the  people  coming 
up  the  water  stairs  and  in  from  the  calle,  wondering  if  there 
would  be  any  music  there  that  night,  for  the  season  was  as 
yet  early  and  the  air  cold  after  sunset- 


90 


GUILDEROY. 


“ Do  you  mean  that  you  would  prefer  Ladysrood  to  this  ?* 
he  asked  her  incredulously,  while  the  pigeons  going  to  roost 
circled  above  the  white  pinnacles  of  Sansovino’s  shrine. 

“ I could  care  very  dearly  for  Ladysrood/’  she  answered 
with  hesitation. 

“ And  I am  glad  that  you  should,  since  it  belongs  to  us  ; 
and  I care  for  it  myself.  But  to  prefer  it  to  this  ? Think 
what  chilly,  misty  mornings,  what  stormy,  dusky  sunsets  it 
is  surely  having  now.  England  might  be  tolerated  in  the 
South  were  it  not  for  two  things — its  sea-fogs  and  its  Non- 
conformists. We  can  keep  the  Nonconformists  outside  our 
gates,  but  we  cannot  keep  the  sea-fogs.” 

“ We  have  fogs  here.” 

“ Ah,  but  what  different  fogs  ! Light  as  gossamer,  dove- 
hued  like  mother-of-pearl,  parting  to  show  a rosy  sail  with  a 
Madonna’s  crown,  or  the  marble  saints  of  the  Salute  dome  ! 
My  dear,  you  cannot  speak  of  this  fog  and  of  those  fogs  in  the 
same  breath.  The  one  is  a film  of  lace  off  the  Virgin’s 
altars,  the  other  is  Hodge’s  smock  hung  up  to  dry ! ” 

She  looked  at  him  with  a certain  expression  which  he  did 
not  admire. 

“And  you  do  not  care  whether  Hodge  has  a shirt  or 
not  ? ” 

Guilderoy  laughed  impatiently. 

“ I care  very  much  when  the  shirt  figures  metaphorically 
as  a fog  ! My  dear  child,  pray  do  not  become  a politician. 
Become  anything  else  you  like  that  pleases  you,  but  not  that. 
We  have  too  many  of  them  already.  We  have  also  already 
got  too  many  undigested  opinions.  All  opinions  require 
long  rumination,  only  unfortunately  it  is  a process  unknown 
to  politicians.  You  are  a very  lovely  woman,  Gladys.  You 
will  be  handsomer  still  every  year  for  some  time  to  come. 
Leave  opinions  alone,  my  love.  If  you  must  have  them,  be- 
ing your  father’s  true  daughter,  do  not  spoil  your  pretty 
mouth  by  their  utterance.” 

A shudder  went  over  her  face.  She  had  acute  intelligence, 
and  she  did  not  like  to  be  relegated  to  the  level  which  his 
words  implied. 

“ Am  I only  to  dress  then  like  a lay  figure  ? ” she  said  a 
little  angrily. 

“ And  amuse  yourself  and  look  beautiful.  Can  you  want 
more  ? ” 


GUILDEROY.  91 

H There  is  so  much  more  in  life,”  she  murmured  with 
timidity. 

“ In  life  there  is,  no  doubt.  But  in  yours  it  is  best  there 
should  not  be  more  for  many  a long  year.  You  are  so 
young,  and  I avow,  my  dear,  that  I have  a horror  of  women 
who  study  blue-books  and  correct  one’s  statistics  by  their 
own  tables.  The  only  office  of  every  woman  who  can  be  so 
is  to  be  charming.” 

“ I am  not  charming,”  said  the  girl,  with  color  in  her 
cheeks. 

u You  will  be.  You  see  I am  quite  frank  with  you.  In 
our  relations  mere  compliments  are  a mistake.  You  will  be 
infinitely  charming  when  you  realize  that  you  are  so.  At 
present  your  power  to  charm  is  not  more  intelligible  to  you 
than  the  use  of  a knife  to  an  infant : the  infant  has  not  the 
faintest  idea  of  any  difference  between  the  blade  and  the 
haft.  Nor  do  you  discern  between  the  natural  beauties 
which  you  possess,  which  are  very  great,  and  those  which 
you  can  exercise  by  taking  thought,  which  will  be  still 
greater.” 

“ I do  not  understand,”  said  Gladys. 

u No,”  reflected  Guilderoy,  “ and  that  is  why  the  innocent 
woman  is  always  hopelessly  left  behind  in  the  race  for  men’s 
passions.  She  does  not  know,  and  she  does  not  make  art 
supplement  nature  ; and  she  says  what  she  thinks  ; and  she 
shows  what  she  feels ; and  she  cries  when  we  would  laugh 
and  laughs  when  we  could  cry,  and  is  cold  when  we  are  hot 
and  then  would  warm  us  when  we  are  cold — alas,  alas  : why 
is  virtue  always  like  that  ? ” 

Aloud  he  said  to  her  : — 

a You  will  understand  when  you  go  out  in  the  world  and 
meet  other  women.  You  will  observe  then  that  frequently 
the  women  who  have  least  beauty  but  most  charm  bear  all 
before  them.  It  is  a question  of  mind,  of  perception,  of  sym- 
pathies— perhaps  of  other  things  less  innocent,  but  certainly 
of  them.  A lovely  woman  with  perfect  features  and  form 
(as  you  have)  will  be  admired,  no  doubt,  always ; but  her 
admirers  will  pass  on  unless  she  has  some  charm  beside  her 
beauty.  ‘Know  thyself’  was  said  by  a sage  for  sages,  but  it 
is  quite  as  necessary  a counsel  to  give  to  a lovely  woman. 
You  do  not  know  yourself.  You  are  half  asleep.  Whenever 
you  become  a little  conscious  of  your  power  you  are  fright- 
ened. Well/if  your  mirror  teaches  you  so  little,  look  at  other 


92 


QUILBEitOY. 


women  and  learn  from  them  that  you  can  easily  surpass  them. 
I do  not  intend  to  shut  you  up  in  a cabinet  at  Ladysrood  like 
a Tanagra  figure  5 I want  you  to  be  admired  by  the  world, 
by  my  friends,  by  every  one  ; and  to  be  that  you  must  not  be 
afraid  of  admiration.” 

He  had  no  consciousness  of  the  perils  which  might  lie  in 
the  counsels  he  gave  ; he  was  absorbed  in  his  desire  to  give 
the  setting  it  wanted  to  this  pearl  he  had  found,  and  to 
escape  ridicule  in  the  world  as  the  husband  of  a woman  who 
was  in  love  with  him.  He  spoke  in  entire  sincerity.  He  did 
not,  indeed,  tell  her  that  he  found  her  wanting  himself ; but 
he  vaguely  endeavored  to  imply  it.  She  would  be  none  the 
less  innocent  if  she  gained  in  pliability,  in  facility,  in  power 
of  charm,  and  she  would  be  a million  times  more  interesting, 
and  more  easily  adapted  to  the  world  before  her. 

“You  will  have  a great  deal  to  do  once  you  are  lancee  ,”  he 
continued.  “ The  life  of  society  is  full  of  small  things  and  of 
continual  stir ; it  is  a strenua  inertia , but  it  leaves  little 
time  for  contemplation.  You  will  find  your  hours  gone 
before  you  have  begun  to  count  them.  Certainly  it  is  very 
good  of  you  to  wish  to  be  of  use  to  others,  but  you  will  not 
find  it  easy ; and  all  the  parade  of  philanthropy  which  women 
of  rank  deal  in  is  rather  an  insult  to  the  poor  than  a kindness 
to  them.  I do  not  wish  you  to  be  conspicuous  in  that 
way  ; give  all  you  please,  my  dear ; give  with  both  hands ; 
but  pray  avoid  all  appearance  of  political  advertisement  and 
sentimental  religion.  Both  are  equally  offensive  to  good 
taste.” 

She  did  not  reply;  she  looked  at  the  crescents  of  light 
which  were  beginning  to  kindle  along  the  lines  and  arches  of 
the  Procuratie.  She  was  thinking  passionately  and  pain- 
fully : “ If  I did  not  please  him  why  did  he  not  let  me  alone  ? ” 

“ I do  not  wish  to  vex  you,  my  child,  and  youth  is  always 
charming,”  said  Guilderoy  lightly,  “but  I want  you  to  real- 
ize that  you  are  very  lovely  through  the  grace  of  nature,  and 
that  you  may  become  still  more  so  by  the  grace  of  art. 
That  is  all.  I would  rather  teach  you  this  myself  than  let 
others  teach  it  to  you.  Your  own  ideal,  I know,  is  to  live  at 
Ladj^srood  and  be  kind  to  Hodge.  You  shall  be  as  kind  to 
him  as  you  please — though  he  will  like  you  none  the  better 
for  it — but  you  must  live  in  the  world,  and  the  world  does 
not  care  even  for  Helen,  unless  Helen  has  her  girdle  of 
charm*!” 


GU1LDER0T. 


93 


" But  if  I please  you  ? ” 

“ Please  others  to  please  me/’  said  Guilderoy  aloud.  And 
he  thought  to  himself  : u As  men  are  made,  my  dear,  unless 
you  please  others,  you  will,  alas ! not  please  me  long.” 

“ I quite  admit,  my  dear  child,”  he  pursued,  “ that  a life 
passed  in  the  country  is  infinitely  easier  and  infinitely  more 
likely  to  develop  high  thoughts  and  gentle  ones.  I am  con- 
vinced that  the  wretched  fretful  pessimism,  which  is  the 
curse  of  modern  art  and  literature,  comes  from  the  men  who 
follow  literature  and  art  crowding  together  in  cities,  and 
leading  the  feverish  existence  of  the  clubs  and  of  the  streets. 
Their  blood  grows  poor  and  feeble,  and  their  meditations  and 
views  are  all  tinged  with  the  hypochondria  due  to  bad  air, 
overfeeding,  and  unending  excitement.  I am  really  convinc- 
ed of  it.  If  cities  continue  to  spread  as  they  have  done  in 
the  last  fifty  years,  there  will  not  be  a book  worth  reading 
written,  or  a picture  worth  seeing  painted.  For  the  majority 
of  men  who  can  never  be,  and  are  never,  rich  or  famous,  life 
in  great  cities  must  be  pent  up,  jaundiced,  deprived  of  all 
health ; whilst  for  those  who  are  rich  or  who  achieve  fame, 
life  in  cities  means  incessant  friction,  emulation,  bitterness, 
elation,  jealousy,  and  haste.  Nothing  great  or  good  can 
come  out  of  the  seething  cauldron  of  life  in  London  or 
Paris,  and  all  good  men  have  loved  solitude  and  nature. 
Tusculum  contributed  more  than  Pome  to  the  genius  of 
Cicero. 

u And  yet,”  he  continued  with  a smile,  “ I who  am  not 
Cicero  and  am  not  even  a modern  poet  or  novelist  or  painter, 
I frankly  confess  that  the  life  world  is  necessary,  and  the 
climate  of  my  own  country  intolerable  to  me  for  nine 
months  out  of  the  year.  You  will  say,  or  if  you  do  not  say  you 
will  think,  that  like  so  many  others  I can  see  what  is 
^ood,  yet  shun  it.  Yes  ; in  that  I am  a man  of  my  genera- 
tion. In  no  age  more  than  in  our  own,  I think,  did  men  see 
taore  clearly  all  that  life  might  and  ought  to  be,  and  fail  more 
utterly  in  making  it  even  tolerable  to  themselves.” 

He  had  forgotten  that  he  was  speaking  beyond  the  com- 
prehension of  his  companion  \ that  she  knew  nothing  of  the 
moral  phthisis  of  pessimism  and  the  chronic  typhoid  of  un- 
rest. He  forgot  that  the  country  meant  to  her  only  red 
toses,  green  grass,  a boat  on  a summer  wave,  a swing  be- 
tween two  orchard  trees,  pet  doves  flying  in  the  sunshine, 
and  a pet  kid  nibbling  flowers — all  the  freedom,  the  play- 


94 


GUILDEROY. 


time  and  the  sport  of  eager  healthful  limbs,  which  it  does 
mean  to  all  innocent  and  vigorous  early  life,  whether  of  the 
the  sheep-fold,  of  the  cattle  byre,  or  of  the  human  race. 

She  did  not  contradict  him  merely  because  she  did  not 
understand. 

“ My  father  lives  in  the  country,  and  you  always  say  that 
he  is  very  clever ! ” she  observed,  after  a long  silence. 

“Your  father  is  above  humanity,”  said  Guilderoy,  impa- 
tiently. “Nay,  forgive  me,  my  dear;  I have  the  greatest 
honor  and  regard  for  Mr.  Vernon,  but  he  cannot  be  taken  as 
a rule  for  anybody  but  himself,  for  no  one  else  has  wonder- 
ful power  of  self-denial,  coupled  with  the  contradictory 
power  of  sufficing  to  himself.  He  is  a nature  $ elite.  I am 
made  of  less  fine  clay.  I admit  that  I weary  myself  con- 
sumedly  when  I have  been  a little  while  in  my  own  com* 
pany.  I have  been  too  used  to  the  movement  of  the  world.” 

“ I think  I weary  you,  too,”  said  the  girl  in  her  own  soul, 
but  she  did  not  utter  her  thought  aloud. 

As  he  spoke,  he  started  and  half  rose  from  his  chair.  He 
saw  a lady,  dressed  in  black  from  head  to  foot,  coming 
through  the  people,  followed  by  a tall  footman,  in.  amber- 
colored  livery,  laced  with  silver,  and  accompanied  by  several 
young  men,  and  one  large  Russian  gray-hound. 

“ Good  heavens  ! ” Guilderoy  murmured  unconsciously, 
aloud,  as  he  mechanically  lifted  his  hat  as  she  passed  him. 

She  acknowledged  the  salutation  with  a slight  bow,  and 
passed  on  through  the  throng  towards  the  piazza.  She  did 
not  even  glance  at  his  companion. 

“ Who  is  that  beautiful  woman  ? ” asked  Gladys. 

Guilderoy  did  not  reply.  He  had  grown  pale,  and  his  eyes 
had  a startled  look. 

“ She  knows  you,”  the  girl  persisted  innocently.  “ Do 
tell  me  who  she  is?  ” 

“ It  is  the  Duchess  Soria,”  he  replied. 

“ Is  she  one  of  those  lam  to  imitate  ? ” said  the  child,  a 
little  sadly. 

“ No  one  could  ever  be  like  her,”  said  Guilderoy,  hastily  ; 
and  if  his  companion  had  had  a little  more  experience  in 
such  matters,  she  would  have  heard  in  his  voice  that  tone 
with  which  a man  never  speaks  but  of  some  woman  whom  he 
loves,  or  whom  he  at  least  remembers  tenderly  that  he  has 
loved. 


01 TILDEROY.  95 

She  did  not  understand,  but  she  vaguely  comprehended 
that  he  did  not  wish  to  speak  more  on  the  subject. 

Very  soon  afterwards  Guilderoy  suggested  a return  to 
their  gondola  on  the  score  that  the  evening  was  chilly. 
When  they  reached  his  palace  he  stayed  behind  to  say  a few 
words  to  the  gondolier.  The  man  brought  him  word  an  hour 
later,  in  answer  to  his  command,  that  the  Duchess  Soria  was 
staying  at  the  Palazzo  Contarini. 

Throughout  dinner  he  was  abstracted  and  inattentive. 
After  dinner  he  paced  the  long  drawing-rooms  from  end  to 
end  impatiently,  wondering  how  he  should  escape  the  girl's 
observation,  and  go  where  he  wanted  to  go. 

“ Might  we  not  go  on  the  water  again  ? " she  asked  him, 
wistfully.  They  often  went  out  after  dinner,  when  the  moon 
Was  full,  as  it  was  this  night ; and  she  had  an  uneasy  sense 
that  he  was  we^ry  and  impatient  of  her  company. 

“ It  is  too  cold,"  he  answered,  as  in  a reverie ; and  he  con- 
tinued to  pace  up  and  down  the  chambers. 

“ Cold  ! " It  seemed  to  her  as  warm  as  a midsummer 

evening  in  England. 

“ I think  it  is  too  cold  for  you,"  he  answered,  impatiently. 
u If  you  would  not  mind,  I would  go  out  alone." 

Her  ear  was  quick  and  fine,  and  caught  the  accent  of  petu- 
lance at  any  constraint.  With  great  self-constraint  she  for- 
bore to  notice  it. 

“ Oh,  pray  go  ! " she  said,  willingly.  “ I am  rather  tired ; 
I should  be  glad  to  rest  in  my  room." 

He  did  not  give  her  credit  for  the  effort,  because  he  did 
not  perceive  it ; he  was  only  glad  that  she  did  not  oppose  his 
departure. 

“ Good-night,  dear,"  he  said,  with  real  tenderness,  for  he 
was  grateful  to  her,  and  he  kissed  her  fondly ; yet  he  felt  ir- 
ritated at  the  kind  of  obligation  inferred  by  the  semi-apology 
made  for  his  absence. 

True,  it  was  no  more  than  courtesy  would  have  made  him 
offer  to  any  woman  dependent  on  him  for  society  and  com- 
panionship ; but  the  sense  that  he  had  to  account  for  his  ac- 
tions irritated  and  weighed  on  him.  The  sweetness  and  sim- 
plicity with  which  she  accepted  his  excuses  did  not  soothe 
away  the  sense  of  subjection  which  fretted  him  in  making 
them.  It  is  because  men  feel  the  necessity  to  explain  that 
*h ey  drop  into  the  habit  of  saying  what  is  not  true.  Their 
explanations  cannot  be  always  true]  it  is  impossible  that 


96 


GUILDEROY. 


they  should  be  so.  Wise  is  the  woman  who  never  insists  on 
an  explanation  which,  if  given,  must  be,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  either  an  offence  to  her  or  an  untruth. 

Perhaps  more  than  half  the  happiness  of  life,  whether  in 
love  or  marriage,  consists  in  having  learnt  the  art  of  gilding 
over,  as  though  it  were  unperceived,  that  which  we  are  not 
desired  to  perceive.  That  few  women  have  this  delicate  art, 
or  possess  the  self-control  and  self-negation  which  are  re- 
quired for  its  exercise,  is  a fact  which  lies  at  the  root  of  a 
great  deal  of  human  unhappiness  and  disunion. 

The  innate  delicacy  of  John  Vernon’s  daughter  supplied 
the  place  of  tact  in  her,  and  her  mind  was  too  childlike  and 
unsophisticated  to  harbor  jealousy,  however  vague. 

“ He  would  not  have  chosen  me  if  he  had  not  preferred  me 
to  all  others,”  she  would  no  doubt  have  said  had  any  Mephis- 
topheles  been  there  to  pour  into  her  ear  self-doubts  and  the 
iwstlessness  of  suspicion. 

But  a vague  feeling,  which  was  the  most  womanlike  of 
any  which  she  had  hitherto  felt,  came  over  her ; a feeling 
older  and  sadder  than  her  years.  She  thought  to  herself, 
wistfully,  u Why  did  he  want  me  with  him  if  he  be  not  happy 
anywhere  with  me  ? ” 

It  was  the  pathetic,  unwise  wonder  of  the  woman  in  a 
child’s  heart. 

She  heard  one  gondolier  cry  to  the  other,  “ Palazzo  Con- 
tarini,”  and  the  oars  fell  with  a gentle  splash  into  the  water. 
She  watched  the  gondola  as  far  as  she  could  follow  it  with 
her  eyes.  The  moonlight  fell  full  on  the  canal,  and  it  was 
visible  until  the  curve  by  the  Bialto  hid  it  from  sight.  The 
slow,  soft,  noiseless  movement,  which  had  something  amor- 
ous in  its  languor  and  caress  of  the  water,  was  as  unlike  the 
abrupt  and  noisy  movement  of  her  boat  over  the  gray,  salt 
water  at  home,  as  her  present  life  was  like  her  past. 

Her  elbows  rested  on  the  silk  cushions  which  covered  the 
marble,  and  her  head  rested  on  her  hands : her  eyelashes 
were  wet  with  tears,  she  could  not  very  well  have  said  why, 
except  that  the  vague  impatience  in  Jiis  tone  and  the  de- 
mand on  her  to  be  something  other  than  she  was  seemed  to 
weigh  on  her  heart  with  a heavy  sense  of  her  own  inefficiency 
to  content  him.  His  affections  were  hers ; he  had  said  so  a 
thousand  times,  and  he  had  proved  it  as  far  as  a man  can  $o 
so  ; and  yet  she  felt  that  he  was  disappointed  in  her,  impa« 
tient  of  her,  wanted  her  in  some  way  unlike  what  she  was. 


GTTILDEROY. 


m 


There  was  a group  of  servants  standing  on  the  water- 
entrance,  enjoying  the  balmy  night;  they  were  all  Vene- 
tians, and  what  they  said  was  unintelligible  to  her ; but  she 
heard  them  laugh  as  the  gondoliers  went  from  the  stairs,  and 
though  she  knew  nothing  of  its  objector  its  meaning,  she  re- 
sented the  laughter  and  was  hurt  by  it.  She  withdrew  from 
the  window,  and  bade  her  woman  shut  the  casement,  though 
the  moon  was  pouring  its  radiance  through  the  chamber,  as 
on  Christabeks.  She  was  too  young  to  feel  jealousy,  and  too 
well  accustomed  to  obedience  to  feel  rebellious  ; yet  a vague, 
unanalyzed  pain  was  in  her  heart.  Would  he  be  long  ? she 
wondered. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Gutlderoy  meantime  went  on  with  a quickly  beating 
heart  to  the  water-gate  of  the  Palazzo  Contarini. 

u Is  it  possible  that  I love  her  still  ? ” he  asked  himself 
uneasily  as  his  boat  glided  through  the  green  shadowy  wa- 
ters, through  the  deep  black  shadows,  and  the  glistening 
breadths  of  light  where  the  moonbeams  fell.  He  had  thought 
not.  An  hour  before  he  would  have  sworn  that  he  did  not. 

The  Palazzo  Contarini,  turning  its  Gothic  buttresses  and 
machicolations  to  the  little  canal  of  the  Priuli,  towered  above 
him  as  his  gondola  touched  its  water-stairs. 

“ Take  up  my  name,”  said  Guilderoy  to  a servant  whom 
he  recognized  at  the  entrance. 

He  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  steps  and  waited.  The  water 
flowed  past  him  bronze-green  in  the  full  moonlight  with  a 
melancholy  and  monotonous  soufid  in  its  ebb  and  flow.  With 
one  of  the  strange  contradictions  of  human  temper  he  pas- 
sionately regretted  a privilege  which  he  had  abandoned  of 
his  own  accord  ; a time  when  the  servants  of  Beatrice  Soria 
showed  him  into  her  presence  unannounced  and  sure  of  wel- 
come. Of  his  own  free  will  he  had  broken  off  those  terms  of 
privileged  intimacy,  and  he  knew  well  enough  that  he  had 
desired  to  do  so  before  he  had  taken  the  resolve  to  do  it. 
And  yet  he  regretted,  and  would  have  had  these  privileges 
once  more  if  he  had  been  able  to  command  them.  He 
despised  his  own  inconstancy,  but  he  could  not  control  its 
regrets  and  its  forebodings. 


98 


GUILDEROY. 


He  was  kept  waiting  some  little  time  standing  there  on 
the  top  stair,  whilst  the  gondoliers  mnrmured  and  laughed 
with  one  another,  and  the  reflections  of  the  lamps  trembled 
in  the  water.  Then  the  servant  returned  and  said : — 

“Will  my  lord  follow  me  ? ” 

Guilderoy  followed  him  up  the  steep  stone  staircase  and 
across  the  ante-chamber  into  a large,  vaulted,  painted  cham- 
ber in  which  the  severe  beauties  of  old  Venetian  art  were 
blent  with  the  luxurious  litter  of  modern  taste.  The  room 
was  faintly  lighted  from  wax  candles  burning  in  the  wall 
sconces,  the  air  was  odorous  with  the  scent  of  many  lilies  of 
the  valley.  The  Duchess  Soria  was  reclining  on  a couch  at 
the  further  end.  As  he  advanced  the  room  seemed  to  him 
endless,  the  time  consumed  in  passing  through  it  appeared  a 
century.  He  had  never  in  his  life  before  known  the  sensa- 
tion of  embarrassment : he  knew  it  now. 

She  aided  him  in  no  way.  She  turned  her  head  and 
looked  at  him  as  he  came  towards  her,  but  she  did  not  move 
until  he  was  quite  close  to  her.  Then  she  raised  herself 
slightly  on  one  elbow  and  put  out  her  left  hand : the  on© 
nearer  him. 

“ My  dear  friend,”  she  said  with  a little  smile,  “let  me 
felicitate  you.  I saw  Lady  Guilderoy  on  the  Piazza.  She  is 
very  beautiful,  but  surely  she  is  very  young.  A beau  cle  faut / 
yes,  we  always  say  that.  It  would  be  plus  beau  if  when  we 
were  young  we  had  wit  enough  to  know  the  happiness  we 
enjoyed.  When  did  you  come  ? When  will  you  go  away  ? 
I have  this  house  for  a fortnight.  Then  I go  to  Paris,  as 
you  know  is  my  habit  at  this  season. 

Guilderoy  murmured  something,  he  knew  not  what.  He 
was  so  surprised  and  troubled  by  the  easy  indifference  of  a 
reception  so  different  to  the  scene  of  passionate  reproaches 
for  which  he  had  been  prepared,  that  he  could  not  recover  his 
composure.  He  remained  standing,  gazing  down  at  her, 
while  the  color  came  and  went  on  his  cheek. 

She  was  unmoved : she  had  been  for  days  prepared  for 
such  a meeting.  Women  are  always  in  extremis . When 
they  lose  their  self-control  they  lose  it  entirely,  in  a terrible 
abandonment  to  all  their  passions  ; when  they  are  mistress  of 
themselves  they  are,  on  the  contrary,  wholly  under  the  domi- 
nation of  their  colder  and  their  more  merciless  instincts,  and 
all  the  storms  of  emotions  assail  their  composure  in  vain. 

“You  never  answered  my  letter.”  he  said  almost  involun 


GUILDEROY.  9g 

, ,Tt  wa*  7hat  a boy  would  have  said  and  he  knew  it 
and  yet  he  could  not  restrain  the  words.  9 

“What  was  the  use  of  answering  it?”  she  renlied  in  th* 

a"d  ■*"*““  “>”•  f2  capote' 

What  is  done  is  done.  You  know  the  proverb.” 

-out  it  was  not  done  then.” 

“ What  did  you  expect  ? That  I should  entreat  you  for 

my  sake  „o  pause  and  change  your  mind  ? My  dear  friend 
you  were  very  vain.”  ,y  inena 

“Vain  ! ” repeated  Guilderoy. 

He  knewthat  he i could  not  recall  to  her  passions  and  affeo- 

HencoIld1C  ?6had  V,drtaril-V  thro™  back  on  her  hands] 
twT  v,  remi,nd,  her  of  ller  Past  love  for  him,  when 
that  love  had  been  wholly  incapable  of  retaining  his  allegiance 

a flush °Pi”i0”  <*  »» 

“ You  are  not  heroic.  Men  are  not  heroes  except  in  their 
own  eyes.  1 ou  wished  to  marry.  You  married.  P There  is 
no  more  to  be  said.  I hope  it  may  agree  with  you.  It  does 
not  agree  with  most  people.  ” y uoes 

Guilderoy  was  silent  and  embarrassed.  For  more  years 
than  one  his  greatest  emotion  with  regard  to  her  had  been 
impatience  and  readiness  to  dispute  with  her.  He  had  told 
himself  a thousand  times  that  without  difficulty  or  danger  or 
novelty  or  any  future  good  in  it,  passion  became  wearLme 
and  had  no  power  to  hold  him.  And  yet,  now“LT  this  ms’ 
sion  was  altogether  of  the  past,  it  allured  him  back  to  ii  It 
assumed  a thousand  hues  which  it  had  never  worn  before 
*a  ,le  “ *™th,  he  asked  himself  now,  always  loved  her 

caprice  ? * exactions>  her  despotism,  and  her 

caprice  ? If  he  had  not,  how  was  it  that  the  mere  sound  of 

her  name,  the  mere  touch  of  her  hand,  had  had  power  to 
awaken  so  much  in  him  that  he  had  imagined  was  de^d  ? 

entail  1 mS011^  Pile  °f  silk  cushions  and  ori- 

ental stuffs;  her  arms  were  bare  to  the  shoulder,  and  with 

one  hand  she  moved  up  and  down  the  coils  of  an  emerald 
bracelet  on  the  other  arm.  His  eyes  followed  the  movement 
ot  the  jewel  up  and  down  the  soft  pale  flesh,  polished  as  ivory, 

where  his  bps  so  often  had  h-ngered.  Paradise  was  shut  to 
ted  it  ’ and  16  had  ° °Sed  t l$  doors  bimself,  and  he  regret- 

yeSeolTr  a ver^  beautiful  women,  then  eight-and-twenty 
years  old.  bhe  was  tall  and  exquisitely  formed,  whilst  her 


100 


&UILDEHOY. 


face  had  the  rich-hued  fairness  of  Titian’s  women,  warm  as  a 
sun-fed  fruit.  She  had  the  blood  of  many  different  races  in 
her  veins — Arragonese,  Sicilian,  Venetian,  and  French,  and 
she  had  had  for  many  years  all  the  habits,  the  experiences, 
the  wisdom  and  the  charms  of  a woman  accustomed  to  reign 
in  the  greatest  of  great  societies.  Her  marriage  could  not 
be  called  a happy  one,  but  it  was  not  positively  unhappy ; 
she  enjoyed  a large  fortune  wholly  secured  to  her,  and  Hugo 
Soria  was  wholly  indifferent  to  what  she  did  so  long  as  she- 
preserved  an  outward  agreement  with  himself ; they  appeared 
in  public  or  at  great  courts  together  a dozen  times  a year,  and 
he  and  the  world  were  satisfied. 

She  was  not.  She  was  a woman  of  strong  passions  and 
warm  affections,  which  the  habits  of  the  world  had  not  de- 
stroyed in  her.  All  the  heart  she  had — and  it  was  much — - 
she  had  thrown  into  her  relations  with  Guilderoy;  and 
though  those  relations  had  before  his  rupture  with  her  been 
often  strained  and  marred  by  scenes  of  dissension,  they  had 
yet  remained  the  central  interest  of  her  life.  When  the  tid 
ings  of  his  marriage  had  reached  her,  she  had  received  th^ 
greatest  blow  that  it  is  possible  for  a proud  woman  to  re* 
ceive.  The  wildest  desires  of  vengeance  had  passed  through 
her  disordered  thoughts,  only  resisted  because  they  seemed 
too  melodramatic,  too  common,  and  too  poor.  All  her  empire 
had  crumbled  into  dust,  and  she  suffered  as  lowlier  and  more 
patient  women  could  not  do. 

She  had  not  answered  his  letter  because  it  had  seemed  to 
her  that  there  was  no  answer  possible.  You  do  not  answer 
an  insult  unless  you  can  avenge  it.  She  could  not  avenge 
this  because  she  was  a woman,  and  a gentlewoman,  and  she 
was  conscious,  moreover,  that  she  had  often  strained  his 
patience  to  breaking  by  her  exactions  and  her  caprices ; that 
he  had  excuse  if  not  justification  in  his  effort  to  secure  for 
his  future  more  peaceable  and  more  fruitful  attachments. 

So  she  had  replied  nothing  to  his  message  of  farewell;  and 
when  now  she  had  been  asked  to  receive  him  she  had  con- 
sented, and  had  done  so  as  a friend. 

She  had  no  distinct  motive  or  project  in  her  mind;  she 
was  actuated  partly  by  pride,  which  moved  her  to  conceal 
her  wound,  and  partly  by  a vague  desire  not  to  lose  sight  of 
his  life  altogether. 

She  broke  the  silence  at  last. 

“ Your  wife  is  very  lovely,”  she  said  again.  (( Quite  au 


GUILDEROY. 


101 


English  beauty,  but  with  something  more  sensitive  in  it  and 
more  suggestive  than  there  is  in  most  English  girls*  faces. 
Is  she  facile?  Because  you  are  not,  my  dear  friend;  and 
in  marriage  it  is  extremely  necessary  that  one  at  least  should 
be  so.  She  is  a child,  you  say.  Yes,  I see  she  is  a child  at 
present,  but  she  will  not  be  always  a child;  and  in  marriage 
so  very  often  one  is  so  inconveniently  in  love  for  a long  time 
while  the  other  has  forgotten  and  rebels.” 

Guilderoy  gave  an  impatient  gesture.  He  had  not  come 
there  to  discuss  the  philosophy  of  marriage  with  the  wife  of 
Soria. 

“ You  do  not  like  to  talk  about  her  ? 99  said  the  Duchess. 

“ There  is  nothing  to  talk  about;  she  is  very  young,  and 
she  has  seen  nothing  of  the  world,” 

“The  real  ingenue ? It  is  so  strange,  but  men  of  the 
world  are  so  often  enamored  of  that  type  ; and  yet  there  are 
few  things  more  tiresome  than  a mind  which  is  incapable  of 
sympathy  because  it  has  no  knowledge  and  no  experience. 
Some  women  are  tiresome  like  that  all  their  lives — they  are 
the  good  women  ! ” 

She  laughed  a little,  and  added  : 

“ I will  come  and  see  her  to-morrow.  What  hour  suits 
her  ? 99 

Guilderoy  colored.  He  wished  to  heaven  that  they  should 
never  meet,  and  yet  it  was  impossible  to  prevent  it ; and 
perhaps  it  was  merely  a folly  on  his  part  to  feel  that  sensi- 
tiveness about  it.  The  world  was  full  of  such  meetings. 

“Any  hour  you  will  like  to  name;  I will  bring  her  to 
you,”  he  said,  with  a visible  reluctance  which  his  companion 
did  not  choose  to  observe. 

“ To-morrow,  then,  at  five.” 

Guilderoy  bowed.  He  was  thinking  to  himself — it  must 
be  that  she  cares  for  someone  else,  or  she  could  never  be  so 
cold. 

A swift  and  hateful  suspicion  flashed  through  his  mind 
also.  Was  it  possible  that  she  was  in  real  truth  indifferent 
because  already  she  had  replaced  him  ? Was  that  the  ex- 
planation of  her  silence,  of  her  apparent  forgiveness  ? Six 
months  and  more  had  gone  by  since  their  last  meeting.  There 
was  time — more  than  time — for  a woman  of  the  world  to  have 
substituted  one  sentiment  for  another. 

He  hated  the  thought.  It  seemed  impossible  to  him  that 
the  love  she  had  borne  him  could  have  already  gone  elsewhere ; 


102 


GU1LLEROT. 


and  yet  had  not  his  own  passion  faded  and  been  false  to  her  ? 
Had  he  any  title  to  expect  from  her  a constancy  which  he  had 
not  given  ? 

He  sat  beside  her  embarrassed  and  mute;  and  she  watched 
him  under  her  dreamy  long-lashed  eyelids.  A great  depres- 
sion came  over  him  like  a weight  of  lead ; something  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  gone  out  of  his  life  and  left  it  blank.  For 
many  months  he  had  been  used  to  the  thoughts  of  this  woman 
wholly  devoted  to  himself,  and  suffering  from  his  absence 
and  his  inconstancy.  He  had  rebuked  himself  and  hated 
himself  for  what  had  been  in  his  own  eyes  the  cruelty  of  his 
desertion  of  her.  In  a passionate  scene  he  would  have  been 
at  his  ease,  because  he  would  have  had  what  he  expected, 
what  he  was  used  to  ; but  before  this  cool,  languid,  half- 
friendly, half-hostile  reception  of  him,  by  a woman  whom  he 
had  known  alternately  furious  or  tender,  exquisitely  devoted 
or  violently  dominant,  he  was  at  a loss  what  to  do  or  what  to 
say.  He  longed  to  fall  at  her  feet  and  implore  her  pardon, 
but  he  felt  afraid  lest  it  should  seem  to  her  a greater  insult 
than  the  original  offence.  If  she  chose  to  treat  his  marriage 
as  a thing  without  import  or  interest  to  her,  it  was  not  for 
him  to  force  on  her  memories  which  should  remind  her  that 
it  had  been  an  infidelity  to  her  which  she  had  every  right  to 
resent  and  to  condemn. 

She  had  played  with  him  often  when  he  was  really  hers  ; 
she  had  created  his  jealousy  and  irritated  his  temper,  she  had 
often  been  wayward,  despotic,  and  disposed  to  overstrain  the 
great  power  which  she  had  at  one  time  possessed.  At  the 
beginning  his  love  had  been  much  more  passionate  than  hers, 
but  soon  the  proportions  had  been  reversed,  and  gradually;, 
as  years  went  on,  it  had  become  on  her  side  much  greater 
than  on  his  own.  She  had  allowed  her  heart  to  be  drawn 
into  what  she  had  once  intended  should  be  only  a pastime, 
and  she  had,  with  all  the  fractiousness  of  passion,  set  her  soul 
more  and  more  on  her  kingdom,  as  she  felt  that  its  sceptre 
was  more  and  more  likely  to  slide  with  time  from  her  grasp. 
She  had  really  loved  him  ; and  it  was  the  knowledge  of  that 
which,  when  he  had  thought  of  her,  had  moved  him  to  the 
pain  of  remorse. 

And  now  he  found  that  all  his  remorse  had  been  needless, 
all  his  self-reproaches  the  exaggerated  apprehensions  of  vanity ; 
for  it  was  evident  that  of  all  indifferent  matters  his  marriage 


GUILDEROY.  103 

had  been  the  most  indifferent  to  this  woman,  who  for  five 
years  had  seemed  to  live  only  through  his  love  ! 

A wave  of  hot  anger  rose  over  his  soul.  He  regretted  his 
visit  to  her.  He  felt  that  he  was  insignificant  in  her  eyes, 
and  he  longed  to  reveal  to  her  a thousand  things  which  it 
was  impossible  for  him  even  to  hint  at,  since  she  chose  to 
ignore  all  their  past  relations.  He  could  not  blame  her  ; he 
had  no  possible  right  to  do  so.  He  was  aware  that  most  men 
in  his  place  would  have  been  grateful  to  her  for  passing  over 
with  so  much  lightness  a difficult  and  embarrassing  position. 
He  knew  that  he  ought  to  be  thankful  for  her  forbearance 
and  her  indifference,  and  yet  he  felt  that  he  would  have  pre- 
ferred that  she  should  have  upbraided  him,  reviled  him,  struck 
him,  done  anything  to  him  rather  than  tell  him  in  that  tran- 
quil mode  to  bring  his  wife  to  see  her. 

“ Women  have  no  real  feeling,”  he  thought  furiously ; and 
if  she  had  met  him  with  reproaches  he  would  have  said, 
“ Women  have  no  comprehension  !” 

It  was  one  of  those  situations  in  which  the  man  must  be 
always  irritated  with  the  woman,  let  her  do  what  she  may, 
because,  as  he  is  conscious  of  having  acted  ill  to  her,  her  for- 
giveness or  her  invective  must  alike  appear  a rebuke  to  him. 
If  she  had  indeed  met  him  with  any  of  that  constancy  and 
fervor  of  passion  which  had  tired  him  in  her,  she  would  have 
reconciled  him  to  himself.  As  it  was,  he  felt,  with  passionate 
annoyance  at  his  own  weakness,  that  it  was  quite  possible  for 
him  to  become  in  the  future  as  much  in  love  with  her  again 
as  he  had  been  five  years  before.  He  rose  abruptly,  being 
afraid  of  what  he  might  be  betrayed  into  if  he  sat  much  longer 
beside  her  in  the  silence  of  this  flower-scented,  dimly  lighted, 
painted  chamber,  with  no  sound  on  their  ear  except  the  ripple 
of  the  water  below  the  windows,  or  the  distant  cry  of  some 
passing  gondolier.  He  had  had  many  affections  in  his  life, 
but  in  some  ways  he  had  cared  more  for  Beatrice  Soria  than 
for  any  other  woman,  and  cared  longer.  How  that  he  was 
again  in  her  presence,  it  seemed  strange  and  unnatural  that 
they  should  meet  and  part  as  mere  acquaintances.  He  was 
a man  of  tender  heart  if  of  variable  passions,  and  he  could 
not  wholly  restrain  some  of  the  emotion  which  he  felt. 

You  will,  at  least,  allow  me  to  be  always  your  friend  ? ” 
he  murmured  as  he  bent  over  her  hand. 

(i  Why  not  ? ” she  replied,  with  a charmed  sweetness  in 


104 


GUILDEROY . 


the  words  ; but  they  were  wholly  calm,  and  had  no  answering 
emotion  in  them. 

He  held  her  hand  a moment,  then  touched  it  with  his  lips 
and  left  her.  The  heavy  tapestry  hanging  before  the  door 
closed  on  him.  Alone,  she  rose  from  her  couch  with  a fever- 
ish impetuosity  of  some  wounded  animal,  and  paced  to  and 
fro  the  length  of  her  chamber  with  quick,  nervous,  agitated 
steps. 

Strong  passions  and  deep  pain,  scorn,  regret,  and  desire, 
and  the  wrath  of  a proud  nature  under  insult,  all  which  she 
had  successfully  repressed  and  hidden  in  his  presence,  over- 
mastered her  in  solitude. 

As  she  heard  the  sound  of  the  oars  in  the  water  as  his 
gondola  left  the  palace  steps,  she  threw  herself  face  forward 
on  the  cushions  of  her  couch  once  more,  and  with  her  head 
bowed  on  her  beautiful  bare  arms  she  wept  bitterly. 

She  was  a woman  of  the  world,  and  she  had  worn  the  mask 
of  the  worldly  : partly  from  pride,  partly  from  desire  to  renew 
an  association  which  would  perforce  be  severed  forever  were 
any  angry  words  exchanged.  She  knew  that  the  impetuosity 
and  dominance  of  her  temper  had  wearied  out  a love  which 
she  had  prized  more  than  any  other  she  had  ever  enjoyed, 
and  she  had  subjugated  her  will  and  subdued  her  sense  of 
passionate  resentment,  to  make  them  the  slaves  of  her  pur- 
pose and  her  desire  to  regain  her  lost  influence. 

But  the  reaction  was  great,  and  when  alone  she  had  no 
composure  to  affect,  no  indifference  to  simulate  ; she  aban- 
doned herself  to  the  convulsive  and  unrestrained  grief  of  a 
woman  who  is  only  sensible  that  she  has,  for  the  time  at  least, 
lost  all  which  has  made  existence  sweet  to  her. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

The  next  day  at  five  o’clock  he  was  not  at  his  ease, 
and  Gladys  was  timid  and  silent.  The  Duchess  Soria  alone 
was  at  her  ease,  full  of  charm  and  animation,  graciously  kind, 
and  most  brilliant,  as  she  could  be  when  she  chose.  Nothing 
could  be  more  admirable  than  her  manner  to  the  young  girl, 
and  Gladys  looked  and  listened  with  a vague  perception  of 


GUILDEROY. 


10S 


what  he  had  meant  by  his  warning  to  herself  on  the  Piazetta. 

She  could  never  be  like  this  exquisite  woman,  with  her 
perfect  grace,  her  low  sweet  laugh,  her  easy  gliding  from  one 
language  to  another,  her  delicate  touches  of  wit  which  just 
brushed  its  subject  and  left  an  epigram  on  it,  as  though  her 
lips  dropped  diamonds  like  the  queen’s  of  the  fairy  story. 
The  sense  of  her  own  inferiority  made  the  girl  twice  as  shy 
and  twice  as  self-conscious  as  she  had  ever  been  before.  All 
the  childlike  frankness  and  courage  which  had  been  so  nat- 
urally hers  before  her  marriage  had  evaporated.  She  was 
almost  mute,  and  blushed  painfully  whenever  she  was  forced 
to  speak. 

Guilderoy  felt  passionately  angered  against  her. 

“ She  will  make  the  other  think  that  I have  married 
a fool  ! 99  he  said  bitterly  to  himself,  with  the  same  restless 
irritating  consciousness  that  a man  feels  who  has  bought  a 
jewel  at  great  price,  and  sees  it  subject  to  the  contemplation 
of  a supreme  connoisseur  in  gems,  only  to  be  condemned  as 
worthless. 

There  was  a look  in  the  eyes  of  Beatrice  Soria  which  made 
him  writhe  ; not  quite  derision,  not  quite  contempt,  but 
cruelly  hinting  both. 

“ Is  it  for  this  you  have  left  me  ? 99  said  the  lustrous  and 
languid  glance  of  those  eyes  in  which  he  had  once  seen  all 
his  heaven,  and  was  so  tempted  to  see  it  still. 

“ What  inferior  creatures  we  are  to  women  ! 99  thought 
Guilderoy.  “ We  are  fools  enough  to  be  troubled  by  what 
seems  to  us  an  equivocal  situation,  a want  of  decency  or  dig- 
nity, but  a woman  carries  off  any  false  position  with  the 
most  consummate  ease  ; she  is  never  at  a loss  for  brilliant 
conventionalities,  she  is  never  shaken  by  a consciousness  of 
inopportune  memories  ; you  may  have  left  her  chamber  half- 
an-hour  before,  but  she  will  present  you  with  perfect  self- 
possession  to  her  acquaintances  in  her  drawing-room  ! ” 

If  she  had  refused  to  see  his  wife  he  would  have  accused 
her  of  jealousy,  and  of  the  desire  to  create  a painful  scene  ; he 
would  have  said  that  women  carried  far  too  much  earnest- 
ness into  passing  passions,  and  desired  to  give  permanence 
to  intimacies  which  should  be  evanescent. 

Guilderoy,  who  thought  that  he  knew  the  whole  gamut  of 
female  emotions,  was  perplexed  to  explain  to  himself  the  mo- 
tive and  the  character  of  her  feelings. 

There  was  an  unaffected  kindliness  and  sweetness  in  be* 


106 


OXTILDEBOT. 


manner  to  Gladys  which  was  the  perfection  of  acting,  if  acting 
it  were.  The  young  girl  was  bewitched  and  fascinated  by  it, 
and,  when  they  had  left  the  Palazzo  Contarini,  was  full  of  the 
expressions  of  her  admiration,  to  which  he  found  it  some- 
what difficult  to  reply. 

For  one  moment,  as  they  glided  over  the  water  homeward, 
he  felt  an  impulse  to  tell  her  the  story  of  his  relations  to  the 
Duchess  Soria.  He  felt  that  it  would  create  a certain  confi- 
dence and  clearness  between  them  ; that  it  would  enable  her  to 
guide  her  own  conduct  and  understand  his  own  in  the  future  ; 
but  the  words  were  difficult  to  utter.  He  had  the  intimate 
sense,  which  every  man  who  is  a gentleman  feels  so  strongly, 
that  to  speak  of  a woman’s  passion  for  himself  is  a cowardice 
and  a vulgarity.  He  felt  that  he  should  repent  it  forever 
after  if  he  were  to  be  guilty  of  such  an  offence  against  the 
unwritten  laws  of  honor.  Moreover  he  was  conscious  that  he 
could  not  speak  of  her  with  total  indifference,  because  he  was 
not  indifferent.  And  then,  again,  what  would  Gladys  com- 
prehend ? She  was  such  a child  : she  would  probably  be  dis- 
gusted, alarmed  and  wholly  unable  to  understand  either  the 
confession  or  his  motive  for  making  it.  So  he  kept  silence, 
and  merely  responded  with  acquiescence  to  her  repeated  inter- 
rogations and  affirmations  of  enthusiastic  admiration  of  the 
grace,  the  beauty,  and  the  charm  of  her  great  rival. 

“ You  will  be  as  charming  yourself  when  you  know  a lit- 
tle more  of  the  world,”  he  replied,  with  a touch  of  impatience 
at  the  last. 

“ I shall  never  be  like  that,”  said  the  girl  despondently. 

“ You  do  not  want  to  be  ; you  are  young  ; youth  has  its 
own  charm.” 

“ But  you  told  me  I wanted  to  improve  so  much  ? ” 

“ If  I did  I was  a fool.  You  need  not  always  take  seriously 
what  I say,  my  dear.  Men  often  have  boutades ; they  are 
only  spoilt  children.  Women  are  very  unwise,  and  are  always 
very  unhappy,  who  attach  too  much  importance  to  our  idle 
word&” 

Gladys  was  silent.  She  was  wondering  how  she  was  to 
know  when  he  wished  to  have  his  words  taken  seriously  and 
when  he  did  not.  Her  father’s  clear,  limpid,  straightforward 
speech  had  always  been  so  intelligible  to  her.  She  had  had 
no  experience  of  the  caprices  and  involutions  of  speech  used 
only  to  conceal  the  speaker’s  thoughts,  or  aimlessly  to  dis- 
charge the  doubts  and  the  desires  at  war  in  the  speaker’s 


GUILLEROY . 


107 


mind.  But  her  intelligence  and  the  delicacy  of  her  appre- 
hensions told  her  that  in  some  way  her  praise  of  the  Duchess 
Soria  was  distasteful  to  him.  She  talked  of  her  no  more. 

After  leaving  the  Palace  they  had  gone  down  the  Grand 
Canal  and  out  towards  the  Lido.  Venice  was  at  her  most 
beautiful  moment  (unless,  indeed,  daybreak  be  not  still  more 
beautiful),  the  sun  was  setting  behind  the  city,  and  the 
golden  glow  suffused  the  water,  the  sky,  the  earth,  and  made 
the  ships  and  the  isles,  and  the  buildings  of  the  Schiavone 
look  like  the  translucent  images  seen  in  a mirage. 

Venice  is  the  heaven  of  lovers  ; yet  Guilderoy  already  felt 
that  he  had  ceased  to  be  a lover  as  he  drifted  through  the 
sparkling  sunshine  or  the  starry  night  by  the  side  of  his 
young  companion.  When  there  is  absolutely  no  response, 
passion  soon  grows  tired  alike  of  its  demands  and  of  its  per- 
suasions. He  had  been  used  to  women  who  studied,  stimu- 
lated, caressed,  and  tempted  him.  She  was  too  young  to  do 
the  first  of  these,  and  too  ignorant  of  her  own  charms  and 
powers  to  do  the  others.  He  remained  wholly  unaware  of 
the  mingled  and  contradictory  emotions  with  which  this 
mute  soul  regarded  him.  The  eloquent  expression  of  passion 
is  more  than  half  its  attraction  and  the  devotion  of  the  heart 
is  useless  unless  the  intelligence  is  sufficiently  awake  to  unite 
it  to  influence. 

“ I shall  not  see  Madame  Soria  again  ? she  said,  as  the 
gondola  drifted  up  the  canal  an  hour  later,  and  passed  the 
Contarini  Palace,  in  which  the  windows  were  all  lighted  a 
giorno . 

“ Why  should  you  want  to  see  her  ? ;;  he  replied  with  petu- 
lance. “ I thought  you  were  shy  of  strangers.  Be  quite 
sure,  however,  that  you  will  see  her,  over  and  over  again,  in 
the  world.” 

He  turned  his  head  away  as  they  neared  the  lighted  palace ; 
he  hated  to  think  that  others  were  there  besides  Beatrice 
Soria ; others,  perchance,  who  had  succeeded  to  the  same  privi- 
leges and  the  same  intimacy  which  had  once  been  his. 

He  had  voluntarily  abandoned  them,  but  he  regretted 
them  bitterly  now;  even  as  a man  might  in  a fit  of  passion 
fling  a collar  of  pearls  into  the  green  water  of  the  canal,  and 
regret  his  act  when  it  had  sunk  forever  out  of  sight  under 
the  seaweed  and  the  sand. 

“Do  you  intend  to  be  mute  forever,  as  you  were  before 
her,  before  all  my  friends  ? ??  he  said,  irritably,  as  they 


108 


QUILDEROT. 


passed  under  San  Giorgio  Maggiore,  feeling  forced  to  rent 
his  irritation  in  some  way.  “ 1 really  cannot  understand 
you,  ray  dear  ; you  have  spirit  enough  when  you  choose.  Do 
you  mean  to  sit  like  a country  mouse  in  all  London  and  Paris 
drawing-rooms  ? Do  you  mean  to  make  no  effort  to  attain 
the  tone  and  the  air  of  the  world  you  have  to  live  in  ? You 
will  make  me  supremely  absurd  if  you  remain  a mere  country 

girl.  In  your  present  position ” 

He  checked  himself,  for  his  good  breeding  made  him  con- 
scious that  he  could  not  reproach  or  remind  her  of  social  ad- 
vantages which  she  had  received  from  himself. 

Gladys*  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Whenever  her  father  had 
reproved  her  it  had  been  with  gentle  gravity  and  reasonable- 
ness, not  with  petulant  irritation  like  this. 

“For  heaven’s  sake  do  not  do  that!”  cried  Guilderoy, 
angry  with  himself  and  so  still  more  angered  against  her. 
“ Les  femmes  pleureuses  are  my  abhorrence.  If  there  be 
anything  on  earth  I have  avoided  all  my  life  it  is  tears.” 

“ I beg  your  pardon,”  said  the  girl,  coldly.  There  was  a 
menace  he  did  not  like  in  the  tone,  and  he  said  nothing. 

“ Will  she  not  be  facile  a vivre  ? ” he  thought,  uneasily ; 
it  was  the  quality  he  most  prized  : he  had  never  met  with  it. 
His  sister  did  not  possess  it,  Beatrice  Soria  had  not  possessed 
it,  nor  had  any  one  of  the  many  women  he  had  loved ; it 
seemed  to  him  the  one  good  thing  upon  earth,  chiefly  be- 
cause he  had  always  sought  and  never  found  it.  And,  in- 
deed, in  a sense  he  was  right  in  his  estimate,  if  his  estimate 
sprang  from  his  own  selfishness.  Of  what  use  is  it  for  those 
who  love  us  to  say  that  they  do  so  if  they  cannot  bear  with  our 
infirmities,  pardon  our  weaknesses,  and  make  the  atmos- 
phere of  our  lives  sweet  and  clear  ? 

“If  you  would  like  to  go  to  England,”  he  said,  abruptly, 
“ I have  no  objection.  You  can  go  to  the  first  Drawing-room 
instead  of  the  second,  and  we  can  go  to  Ladysrood  for  Whit- 
suntide. Your  father  would  be  pleased,  no  doubt.” 

The  warmth  with  which  she  thanked  him  made  him  feel 
very  insincere  towards  her.  If  she  could  have  known  his 
motives  for  being  desirous  to  leave  Venice,  she  would  have 
seen  that  consideration  of  her  wishes  or  of  John  Vernon’s 
pleasure  had  very  little  to  do  with  it. 

But  ignorance,  that  kindest  friend  of  trustful  natures,  kept 
her  from  such  knowledge,  and  she  was  grateful  and  happy. 
On  the  morrow  he  sent  a letter  to  the  Palazzo  Contarini, 


GUILDE'ROT . 


109 


in  which  he  expressed  his  regret  that  he  was  recalled  sud- 
denly to  England,  and  must  thus  lose  the  honor  of  seeing  the 
Duchess  Soria  again  in  Venice.  It  flattered  Beatrice  Soria 
to  learn  that  he  should  have  left  Venice  with  so  much  pre- 
cipitation. 

Men  only  flee  from  what  they  fear,  not  from  what  is  indif- 
ferent. 

“What  is  the  use  of  his  flying  from  me  ? ” she  thought, 
“The  world — our  world — is  so  narrow,  we  must  meet  again 
and  again  in  it.” 

He  had  killed  what  was  best  and  warmest  and  sweetest  in 
her,  as  men  do  without  thinking  how  they  destroy  the  better 
qualities  of  women.  They  think  that  they  have  full  title  to  a 
woman’s  fealty  and  forbearance,  though  they  may  have  shown 
neither  forbearance  nor  fealty  themselves,  and  they  demand 
from  her  superhuman  virtues  at  the  very  hour  that  they  do 
things  to  her  which  would  make  an  angel  a fiend.  There 
arose  in  her  now,  in  the  place  of  her  warm,  impetuous  pas- 
sions, a colder  and  unkinder  passion,  which  had  the  patience 
to  wait  and  the  wisdom  to  affect  tranquillity. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

“ And  Lady  Guilderoy — what  is  she  like  ? ” asked  an  old 
friend  of  Lady  Sunbury,  in  a crowded  London  ball-room. 

“She  is  a charming  child,  but  such  a child!”  she  replied, 
with  a sigh, 

“ You  have  forgiven  her,  then  ? ” asked  Lord  Aubrey,  who 
was  standing  near. 

“There  is  nothing  to  forgive.  Your  advice  was  sound.  It 
would  have  been  very  stupid  to  quarrel.  But  if  you  ask  mev 
whether  I believe  the  marriage  is  for  Guilderoy’s  ultimate 
peace,  I do  not.” 

“Why?” 

“ For  a thousand  reasons.  You  always  repent  in  leisure 
when  you  marry  in  haste.  Then  she  is  too  young.  A great 
charm  you  say  ? Yes,  but  sometimes  a very  costly  one. 
She  will  only  be  happy  in  the  country,  and  he  is  only  happy 
in  the  world.  Is  he  in  love,  do  you  say  ? My  impression 
is  that  he  is  not.  She  is  ! ” 


110 


GUILDEROY. 


“ That  is  ominous,  and  early.  If  he  is  not,  why  on  earth 
did  he  marry  ? ” 

“Ah!” 

Lady  Sunbury  moved  her  fan  in  a gesture  suggestive  of 
her  impotence  to  account  for  the  extravagancies  of  any  man. 

“ Evelyn  is  very  capricious  and  has  coups  de  tete  which 
are  often  wholly  unaccountable.  This  was  a coup  de  tete 
Now  that  he  has  outgrown  its  momentary  excitement  I think 
he  looks  at  his  wife  and  wonders  what  he  was  about.” 

“A  happy  prospect  for  her.” 

“ On  s’habitue  a tout”  said  Lady  Sunbury,  with  little 
sympathy  in  troubles  of  the  soul.  “ He  will  always  be  very 
kind  to  her — Evelyn  can  be  unkind  to  nothing — and  he  will 
be  very  courteous  and  generous ; if  she  be  reasonable  she 
will  not  want  more  ; she  can  enjoy  herself  in  any  way  she 
likes.  I hope  she  will  be  reasonable.” 

“ How  old  did  you  say  she  was  ? ” 

“ Seventeen,  I think.” 

“ It  is  not  the  age  of  reason,”  said  Lord  Aubrey,  and  as  he 
wandered  away  through  the  rooms  he  felt  a vague  pity  for 
this  young  girl  whom  he  had  never  seen,  who  was  to  be  con- 
tent with  the  courtesy  of  her  husband,  and  with  the  power 
of  spending  money.  Most  women  wanted  no  more,  it  was 
true,  but  here  and  there  was  a woman  who  did  want  more, 
and  who  having  no  more  was  wretched. 

Aubrey  attended  the  Drawing-room  a few  days  later  with 
some  feeling  of  curiosity.  Presentations  seldom  interested 
him.  He  did  not  care  much  for  women.  But  this  time  he 
looked  on  with  interest,  as  Lady  Sunbury  presented  her 
young  sister-in-law. 

“ She  may  be  a child,  but  she  has  the  sang-froid  of  race 
in  her,”  he  thought,  as  he  saw  Gladys  come  before  the 
throne  with  the  same  calmness  with  which  she  had  fronted 
the  Cherriton  lads  on  the  Ladysrood  moors.  She  scarcely 
looked  her  best  because  the  Court  dress  was  too  stately  for 
her  extreme  youth,  and  the  Guilderoy  jewels  seemed  too 
many  and  too  heavy  for  her  small  head  and  her  childlike 
shoulders  to  sustain;  but  she  carried  herself  with  perfect 
grace  and  repose.  She  was  undisturbed  by  the  novelty  of  the 
scene  and  the  magnificence  of  the  crowd ; and  her  cheeks 
were  as  cool,  and  her  pulse  as  even,  as  though  she  had  been  in 
the  porch  under  the  apple  boughs  and  the  ivy  of  Christslea, 


GUILDEROY,  HI 

There  is  the  Princess  Royal  in  your  lovely  Perdita,”  said 
Aubrey  to  Guilderoy. 

Guilderoy  assented  with  a smile  : he  was  proud  of  her 
and,  for  the  moment,  content.  Occasionally,  as  his  sister 
had  guessed,  he  surveyed  what  he  had  done  with  a sense  of 
wonder  and  vague  uneasiness,  half  troubled  even  whilst  half 
pleased  to  find  her  always  before  him.  But  he  was  well  sat- 
isfied that  she  should  be  his  as  he  heard  the  murmurs  of 
admiration  around  him. 

“I  do  not  wonder  any  longer  that  you  married  her,”  said 
Aubrey. 

“I  wonder  myself  still,  sometimes,”  said  Guilderoy.  “ But 
I am  disposed  to  hope  that  it  was  the  one  wise  act  of  a not 
wise  life.” 

Aubrey  was  silent.  The  wisdom  of  it  did  not  seem  to  him 
so  apparent  as  the  temptation  to  it.  He  admired  his  cousin 
in  many  things,  but  in  others  he  blamed,  and  in  others  he 
doubted  him.  “ He  has  been  a spoiled  child  of  pleasure  and 
of  women  so  long,”  he  thought ; “ will  he  understand  the 
fragility  of  this  new  plaything,  or  care  for  it  if  he  do  under- 
stand it.” 

“You  are  thinking  that  I shall  ill-treat  her,”  said  Guilde- 
roy, annoyed  by  what  he  fancied  the  other’s  silence  meant. 
“I  assure  you  everyone  has  prophesied  the  same,  even  her 
father  and  my  sister.  I do  not  know  why  : I have  not  been 
in  the  habit  of  ill-treating  women.” 

“ You  have  been  in  the  habit  of  leaving  them,”  said 
Aubrey.  “ Sometimes  that  comes  to  the  same  thing.” 

They  were  at  that  moment  separated  by  the  crush,  and 
Guilderoy  was  spared  the  trouble  of  denial  or  reply. 

Aubrey  had  at  no  time  very  much  patience  with  his  cousin. 
Laborious  and  self-denying,  strongly  patriotic  and  accepting 
a vast  amount  of  responsibilities  which  he  hated  because  he 
believed  them  not  to  be  conscientiously  avoided,  he  viewed 
with  impatience  the  useless  brilliancy  of  Guilderoy’s  intelli- 
gence, its  scholarly  indolence  and  its  ingenious  sophisms. 
The  very  inward  sense  which  he  sometimes  could  not  help 
feeling  that  Guilderoy  was  right  enough  in  his  easy-going 
pessimism  and  his  epicurean  choice  of  the  paths  of  life,  only 
served  to  make  him  the  more  impatient  of  a man  who  was 
theoretically  so  selfish  and  yet  practically  so  wise. 

“ Evelyn  has  been  so  spoilt  by  fortune  ! ” Lady  Sunbury 
said  to  him  once. 


112 


GUILDEROY , 


“No  doubt,”  replied  Aubrey,  but  in  himself  he  felt  that 
circumstances  had  conspired  to  spoil  himself  quite  as  much, 
but  had  not  similarly  succeeded,  because  his  natural  indolence 
had  been  striven  against  by  a strong  sense  of  the  responsi- 
bilities of  position. 

“I  do  not  know  that  I have  done  any  good,”  he  thought, 
honestly  enough,  “but  at  least  I have  not  been  idle.” 

He  went  home  from  the  Drawing-room  that  day  with  a 
vague  sense  of  pity  for  the  girl  he  had  called  Perdita.  His 
pity  was  no  doubt  absurd  enough  ; the  world  would  have 
told  him  so  certainly,  and  yet  he  could  not  avoid  the  sense 
of  it. 

“ Evelyn  will  not  make  her  happy,  because  he  will  not  be 
happy  himself,”  he  thought.  “We  cannot  give  what  we  do 
not  possess.” 

“ I regret  to  disagree  with  you,”  he  said,  an  hour  later,  to 
his  cousin  Hilda  in  her  own  house.  “ I am  charmed  with 
his  wife,  but  the  marriage  will  not  be  happy ; she  will  not 
be  contented  with  dressing  exquisitely  and  spending  money.” 

“Then  she  will  be  very  ungrateful,”  said  Lady  Sunbury, 
whose  pride  was  pinched  day  and  night  by  want  of  adequate 
means  to  meet  the  demands  of  her  position.  “I  seriously 
believe  that  the  only  one  grave  and  hopeless  ill  in  life  is 
want  of  money ; it  brings  about  all  others,  it  poisons  every 
hour,  and  it  makes  a good  temper  absolutely  unattainable. 
This  girl  is  a baby  and  sentimental.  She  will  possibly  cry 
her  eyes  out  because  he  looks  five  minutes  too  long  at  another 
woman.  But  when  that  stage  has  passed,  as  it  always  passes, 
she  will  grow  sensible  of  the  advantages  of  always  having  her 
bills  paid  without  question.” 

“ That  will  depend  on  whether  her  temperament  is  suscep- 
tible of  delight  in  running  up  bills.” 

“ Every  woman  has  that  temperment.  Pray  do  not  irritate 
me  any  further.  I opposed  the  marriage  absolutely  so  long 
as  it  was  of  any  use  to  do  so  ; it  was  an  absurd  one — a 
caprice,  a folly.  I have  only  accepted  it  to  prevent  the 
world  talking,  and  because  I cannot  quarrel  for  life  with  the 
head  of  my  family  ; but  I do  not  profess  to  approve  of  it,  and 
if  she  is  to  be  made  into  a sentimental  heroine  as  a femme 
incomprise  I shall  detest  her.  She  has  had  an  immense,  a 
most  amazing,  piece  of  good  fortune  ; I beseech  you  do  not 
irritate  me  by  pitying  her  for  it  I ” 


GUILDEROY.  113 

**1  certainly  will  not  irritate  you,”  said.  Aubrey,  who 
knew  that  she  could  irritate  herself  unaided. 

Lady  Sunbury,  though  she  had  become  reconciled,  be- 
lieved no  more  in  the  wisdom  of  this  marriage  than  she  had 
done  when  she  had  been  its  most  dogged  opponent. 

“ I know  him,”  she  continued  to  her  cousin,  “ and  I know 
that  he  is  one  of  those  men  who,  without  in  the  least  intend- 
ing it,  make  women  as  wretched  ultimately  as  they  make 
them  radiantly  happy  at  the  outset.  My  brother  has  not  a 
harsh  fibre  in  his  whole  nature  (he  says  that  I absorbed  them 
all,  but  whether  I did  or  not  he  has  none),  yet  I am  quite 
sure  that  he  renders  every  woman  he  loves  much  more 
unhappy  than  many  colder  and  worse  men  do.”  ' 

“ Because  he  ceases  to  care  so  soon  ? ” 

“ Partly  that,  and  partly  because  there  is  that  about  Evelyn 
which  women  cannot  forget.  He  will  not  understand  why 
they  do  not  forget  as  completely  and  easily  as  he  does,  and 
so  there  is  wretchedness.” 

“ That  was  with  his  amours,  but  surely  here ” 

“ His  marriage  is  in  feeling  only  an  amour  too;  only  an 
amourette.  When  he  has  come  to  the  end  of  it  he  will  be 
supremely  astonished  to  find  that  it  leaves  restraints  and 
obligations  upon  him  which  amourettes  have  not.” 

“ Perhaps  he  will  get  rid  of  them  also.” 

“ You  cannot  get  rid  of  marriage.  Unless  your  wife  dis- 
graces herself  you  can  never  get  rid  of  it.” 

u In  our  day  it  is  at  least  worn  lightly  if  not  got  rid  of, 
yet  it  is  always  there,”  said  Aubrey.  “ You  are  like  a 
prisoner  who  has  given  his  parole  and  goes  wherever  he 
pleases  ; he  walks  and  wanders  where  he  will,  and  he  can 
saunter  or  sit,  or  sleep,  or  swim,  and  the  sun  and  the  rain 
fall  on  him,  and  he  sees  all  the  living  world  and  the  wide 
horizon,  but  he  has  given  his  parole  to  go  back,  and  it  is  all 
poisoned  for  him.” 

“ In  marriage  at  least  the  parole  is  not  often  kept,”  said 
Lady  Sunbury. 

At  six  o’clock  Aubery  went  and  called  on  his  cousin’s 
wife  in  the  great  Paladian  mansion  which  had  ever  since  it 
was  built  been  the  town  house  of  the  Guilderoy  family.  It 
was  a noble  house  in  its  way,  writh  a staircase  of  black  and 
white  marble,  and  ceilings  by  Italian  artists  of  the  period, 
and  stately  reception-rooms  which  had  seen  many  generations 
of  fine  gentlemen  and  fine  ladies  pass  through  them  like 


114 


QUlLDEROr, 


f minted  shadows  on  a wall.  He  found  the  girl  alone  in  a 
ittle  cabinet  hung  with  French  paintings  of  the  Watteau 
and  Lancret  time,  and  in  which  every  chair,  table,  and  con- 
sole and  gueridon  were  now  heaped  with  roses.  She  looked 
pale  amidst  the  brilliant  flowers  and  the  sparkling  pictures ; 
her  eyes  had  still  the  dreamy,  half-awake  look  which  had 
fascinated  Guilderoy,  but  they  had  a look  of  fatigue  as  well. 

“ I hope  you  will  let  me  greet  you  as  a relative,  as  I could 
not  do  at  the  palace  just  now,”  said  Lord  Aubrey  ; and  he 
bent  his  head  and  lightly  touched  her  cheek  with  his  lips. 
He  pitied  her  intensely;  it  was  wholly  absurd  that  he  should 
do  so,  and  he  knew  it,  and  yet  he  could  not  resist  the  impulse 
of  compassion.  He  could  understand  all  tljat  she  felt  of 
bewilderment,  of  fatigue,  of  shyness  and  of  apprehension, 
before  this  new  life  which  had  descended  on  her  with  such 
startling  suddenness  and  splendor. 

“ You  must  have  thought  us  all  boors  not  to  come  to  your 
marriage,”  he  continued,  “ but  it  was  your  father’s  and 
Evelyn’s  desire  to  have  none  present.  We  did  not  even  know 
on  what  day  it  was.  I am  so  glad,  my  dear,  that  I am  the 
first  to  see  you.  We  must  be  great  friends,  as  well  as  cousins. 
Will  you  allow  me  that  honor  ? ” 

She  smiled.  Her  smile  was  still  the  spontaneous,  un- 
studied, glad  smile  of  a child.  She  felt  grateful  to  Aubrey, 
and  the  sound  of  his  voice  and  the  pressure  of  his  hand 
seemed  to  her  full  of  kindness  and  protection. 

“Did  I do  right  to-day,  do  you  know,  at  the  Court?”  she 
asked  him.  “I  think  he  was  satisfied,  was  he  not  ? ” 

“ If  he  were  not,”  began  Aubrey — then  checked  himself, 
and  answered  quietly,  “You  did  perfectly,  and  it  was  a great 
ordeal ; it  was  so  crowded.  You  have  never  seen  anything  of 
this  London  world  of  ours,  I think  ? ” 

She  shook  her  head. 

“ I want  to  go  to  Ladysrood.  They  brought  me  all  these 
roses  to  make  it  feel  like  the  country.  He  told  them  to  do  it, 
but  it  is  not  the  least  like  the  country.  I should  die  if  I 
stayed  here.” 

Aubrey  smiled. 

“This  time  next  year  you  will  tell  me  there  is  no  place  like 
London.  All  women  say  so. 

“ I shall  not.  It  is  noisy,  dark  and  ugly.” 

“ It  is  not  beautiful,  certainly ; but  there  are  many  beauti* 
ful  things  to  be  found  in  it,  and  this  house  is  one  of  therm 


GUILDEROY. 


115 


You  will  get  fond  of  it  in  time.  At  present  I dare  say  you 
feel  like  a caged  bird.  Your  jewels  tired  you,  did  they  not, 
to-day  ? ” 

“Yes,  they  were  very  heavy.” 

Aubrey  sighed  a little  as  she  spoke. 

“So  is  rank.” 

She  looked  at  him  with  curiosity. 

“'You  are  the  Lord  Aubrey,  are  you  not  ? ” she  asked. 

“ What  do  you  mean,  my  dear  ? No  one  else  has  that  title, 
if  you  mean  that  ? ” 

“ No;  I mean  that  I have  heard  my  father  praise  you.  I 
have  heard  him  say  that  if  the  English  nobles  were  all  like 
you  they  would  have  no  reason  to  fear  the  Deluge.” 

“That  was  very  good  of  your  father,”  replied  Aubrey, 
pleased  and  touched,  “ I suspect  the  Deluge  would  come 
all  the  same  if  all  the  saints  and  heroes  in  Christendom  filled 
our  order.” 

“ He  does  not  think  that  it  would.” 

“He  is  happy  enough  to  live  out  of  the  sphere  of  practical 
politics,”  said  Aubrey,  with  a smile. 

“ For  heaven’s  sake  do  not  speak  to  her  of  politics,”  said 
Guilderoy,  entering  the  room.  “She  has  a terrible  bias  to- 
wards them  already,  and  I insist  that  lovely  women  should 
have  nothing  to  do  with  social  questions.” 

“Her  roses  suit  her  better,  certainly,”  replied  Aubrey,  as 
his  eyes  rested  on  her  with  a wistful  contemplation. 

“ That  child  will  be  very  unhappy  if  she  loves  him,  and  prob- 
ably equally  unhappy  if  she  does  not,”  he  thought,  as  he 
took  his  leave  and  went  on  his  way  to  the  House  of  Commons. 

She  interested  him.  He  saw  much  further  into  her  nature 
jifter  half  an  hour’s  conversation  with  her  than  Guildoroy 
had  seen  of  it  after  three  months  of  the  most  intimate  associ- 
ation with  her. 

“He  has  certainly  given  her  everything  that  a man  can 
give,”  thought  Aubrey  ; “ and  yet  I suspect  he  will  never  give 
her  the  one  thing  which  such  a woman  as  she  will  chiefly 
want.’* 

Aubrey  had  little  time  or  inclination  in  his  career  to 
study  fcne  intricacies  and  fragilities  of  women’s  temperaments, 
but  he  was  a man  of  quick  sensibilities  and  swift  penetration. 

He  vyelieved  in  feeling  though  the  world  thought  him  a 
cynic.  Politics  had  absorbed  most  of  Ills  own  life,  and  the 
emotions  had  not  enjoyed  much  play  in  it.  But  perhaps  for 


116 


GUILDS  ROT. 


that  reason  his  sympathies,  when  they  were  aroused,  had  a 
great  freshness  in  them.  People  in  general  were  afraid  of 
him,  for  his  wit  could  be  hitter  and  unsparing  5 but  childre® 
or  dogs  were  never  afraid. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

u Well,  my  dear,  what  do  you  think  of  life  ? ” said  John 
Vernon  to  his  daughter,  when  they  went  to  Ladysrood  for 
Whitsuntide. 

Gladys  was  standing  in  his  little  study.  She  wore  a gray 
dress  with  a broad  hat,  with  long  ostrich  feathers  drooping 
over  it ; she  had  a silver  belt  round  her  waist,  long  gloves, 
and  one  very  large  pearl  at  her  throat,  with  a few  pale  tea 
roses.  It  was  only  two  months  since  she  had  left  Christslea, 
and  yet  she  looked  to  him  utterly  changed ; as  changed  as 
though  she  had  been  absent  for  years.  She  hesitated  a little 
and  colored.  It  would  have  been  wholly  impossible  to  her  to 
find  words  for  the  curious  mingling  of  great  joy  and  of  ap* 
prehensive  disappointment  which  her  marriage  had  brought 
to  her — the  vague  sense  which  she  was  possessed  with  that 
love  was  at  once  bitter  and  sweet. 

John  Vernon  saw  the  embarrassment  she  felt,  and  re- 
gretted it.  He  would  have  been  better  satisfied  with  some 
youthful  outburst  of  undoubting  enthusiasm  and  ecstacy. 

“You  have  quite  a look  of  the  world  already,”  he  contin- 
ued, with  a smile.  “ What  a toilette  of  Paris  will  do  for  a 
child  ! If  it  were  not  too  rude  to  a peeress,  I would  tell  you, 
my  dear,  that  you  are  actually  grown ! And  so  you  wished 
for  our  rough  seas  and  leaden  skies,  even  in  Venice  ? That 
was  very  sweet  and  faithful  of  you.  And  yet  I think  I 
would  sooner  hear  that  you  had  never  thought  of  us  there.” 

“I  should  have  been  very  thankless  not  to  think,”  she 
said,  still  with  a heightened  color  on  her  cheeks.  “Things 
seemed  so  much  simpler,  too,  when  I was  here,”  she  added, 
after  a little  pause. 

“No  doubt  they  did,  since  you  saw  nothing  but  the  poul- 
try and  the  pigeons,”  said  her  father  with  a smile  ; whilst  he 
thought,  “ It  is  very  early  for  your  difficulties  to  have  began, 
Bay  poor  little  princess! 99 


GU1LDEB0Y. 


117 


iC  In  what  way  does  your  life  seem  to  have  any  perplex- 
(ty  ?”  he  asked  aloud ; “and  when  you  feel  any  do  you  not 
rake  your  puzzles  to  Guilderoy  ? ” 

“I  think  it  would  tease  him  if  I did.” 

“ Ah ! Then  don’t  do  it,  dear.  Never  worry  any  man. 
We  are  fretful  creatures,  with  more  nerves  than  women, 
though  we  pretend  to  have  none.  My  dear  Gladys,  I was  so 
much  opposed  to  your  marriage  while  you  were  so  young,  be- 
cause I knew  that  it  would  not  be  only  a garden  of  roses  for 
you.  There  are  the  roses,  no  doubt,  but  there  are  the  briars, 
too.  You  have  the  pleasures  of  life,  my  love,  and  you  must 
pay  for  them  with  the  pains.  What  is  it  pains  you  most  ? ” 
“ I am  not  sure  ” — and  he  saw  that  she  was  speaking  the 
truth — “I  am  not  sure  that  anything  pains  me.  Only  I 
fancy  that  I am  not  quite  what  he  wants,  what  he  wishes  ! ” 
“ So  soon  ! ” murmured  Vernon  with  a sigh.  “ I dare  say 
that  is  imagination,  my  dear,”  he  said,  repressing  what  he 
felt.  “ When  the  first  ardors  of  love  subside  they  alwaj^s 
leave  a vague  disappointment  because  the  fever  heat  of  them 
cannot  be  sustained.  You  are  now  feeling  the  reaction  which 
follows  them  as  invariably  as  evening  follows  day.  If  you 
wish  to  be  really  happy,  my  child,  do  not  doubt  and  do  not 
analyze.  Self-examination  is  very  apt  to  grow  morbid.  It 
has  its  uses,  burt  it  may  very  easily  have  its  abuses,  too. 
You  have  the  faults  of  youth  and  inexperience,  no  doubt,  but 
I do  not  think  they  are  very  grave  ones,  and  they  will  mend 
With,  time.” 

She  was  silent  some  moments.  Then  she  took  off  her  hat 
and  pushed  back  the  hair  which  hung  over  her  forehead. 

“Father,  do  tell  me,”  she  said  in  a very  low  voice,  “how 
shall  I ever  know  if  he  really  loves  me  ? ” 

“ My  dear  child ! ” 

John  Vernon  was  startled  and  dismayed ; he  had  had  his  own 
doubts  as  to  the  ultimate  happiness  of  the  union,  or  rather  he 
had  had  no  doubt  of  it,  but  a profound  conviction  that  it 
would  bring  but  little  happiness  to  either  of  them  in  the  end. 
But  he  had  not  expected  any  shadow  to  fall  quite  so  soon 
across  the  garden  of  roses,  across  the  brightness  of  the  morn- 
ing light.  He  scarcely  knew  what  to  say  to  her. 

“ Can  you  doubt  it,  dear  ? ” he  replied  evasively.  “ Surely 
you  cannot.  No  man  can  have  given  greater  proof  of  it  than 
he.  If  he  had  not  loved  you  greatly,  why  should  a man  of 
his  high  position  and  powers  to  charm  have  taken  the  trouble 


118 


GUILDEROY . 


to  woo  a little  country  girl  without  a penny  to  her  fortune? 
I think  you  do  Lord  Guilderoy  injustice  and  dishonor  by  your 
doubt.” 

She  gave  a little  sigh  of  dissent,  faint  and  sad  and  incred- 
ulous. 

“ He  might  think  he  loved  me,”  she  said  in  a very  low 
Voice.  “ He  might  think  so  and  then  find  it  was  not  true  — 
how  shall  I know  ? How  do  women  know  ? ” 

“ Good  God  ! What  can  he  have  let  her  see  or  feel  to  put 
such  a cruel  fancy  in  her  mind  already  ? ” thought  Yernon, 
as  he  looked  at  her  in  trouble  and  anxiety  of  spirit. 

He  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  her,  and  he  was  afraid 
even  to  show  the  anxiety  he  felt  lest  it  should  increase  a feel- 
ing already  morbid  and  possibly  baseless. 

“ Do  you  care  for  him  ? ” he  said  abruptly,  looking  her 
full  in  the  face. 

“ Yes.” 

A blush  rose  over  her  face,  and  her  eyes  fell  under  his 
gaze.  For  the  first  time  he  failed  to  see  entirely  into  her 
thoughts,  but  he  saw  that  she  was  very  much  changed. 
Possession,  which  often  weakens  and  chills  the  heart  of  the 
man,  usually  awakens  and  enchains  the  heart  of  the  woman. 
She  had  been  a child  without  any  knowledge  of  love  on  the 
day  when  John  Vernon  had  given  her  hand  to  Guilderoy  in 
the  little  church  of  Christslea  ; but  now,  however  young  she 
was  in  years,  she  wTas  a woman  in  feeling. 

He  laid  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  kissed  her  fore- 
head. 

“Then,  my  dear,”  he  said  gravely,  “do  not  ask  yourself 
what  is,  or  what  is  not,  the  measure  of  his  love.  Make  yours 
so  great,  and  keep  it  so  patient,  that  it  shall  be  a treasure  he 
can  never  get  elsewhere ; so  only  will  you  ever  attain  or  be- 
stow real  happiness.  Do  not  analyze  either  love  or  happi- 
ness too  much.  They  are  like  flowers — like  butterflies — they 
die  beneath  the  lens  of  the  microscope.” 

Gladys  looked  up  at  him  in  silence ; her  face  was  grave 
and  pale. 

He  could  not  tell  whether  she  were  satisfied  or  dissatisfied, 
whether  she  believed  in  happiness  or  had  already  ceased  to 
expect  much  of  it.  They  said  no  more,  and  spoke  of  other 
things.  Much  as  he  longed  to  know  all  the  innocent  secre- 
cies of  her  mind,  John  Vernon  would  not  aid  her  to  continue 
a self-examination  which  might  so  easily  become  self-torture. 


GXJILDEROT. 


119 


He  knew  that  women  are  at  all  times  over-fond  of  self-con- 
templation  and  analysis  of  themselves  and  of  the  affections 
they  receive  and  return. 

Men  are  not  so  fond  of  it ; their  greater  activity  and  more 
frequent  pleasures  make  them  usually  impatient  when  they 
are  forced  to  much  self-examination,  and  their  moral  record  is 
rarely  clear  enough  for  them  to  care  long  to  look  at  it.  But 
women  have  a passion  for  moral  vivisection,  and  spend  many 
an  hour  of  torment,  turning  in  and  out  and  stripping  bare 
the  delicate  nerves  of  their  own  organizations.  He  wished 
to  check  his  daughter  on  the  threshold  of  this  laboratory  of 
the  imaginations  and  affections. 

The  great  advantage  of  a great  position  is  that  it  leaves 
little  time  for  such  dangerous  meditations.  Society  may 
not  be  very  elevating  or  very  ennobling,  but  its  demands  and 
its  diversions,  even  when  they  become  tedious,  fill  the  mind 
and  leave  small  space  for  self-contemplation.  In  many  ways 
it  is  an  evil,  and  it  is  unfavorable  to  the  growth  of  great 
thoughts ; but  it  is  also  an  aid  to  happiness,  or  to  such  near 
likeness  to  happiness  as  most  human  lives  attain,  and  John 
Yernon  was  unselfishly  glad  that  the  world  would,  if  perforce, 
surround  his  child  so  completely.  Love  can  make  its  own 
world  in  a solitude  d deux , but  marriage  cannot.  He  knew 
that. 

Why  must  the  two  be  divorced  ? Gladys  would  have 
asked  him  wistfully.  He  would  have  answered  her,  or  prob- 
ably he  would  have  been  too  merciful  to  answer  her,  that  love 
and  certainty  can  never  dwell  long  together,  and  the  foe 
that  every  woman  has  to  dread  most  utterly  is  habit — habit 
which  makes  the  nostrils  insensible  to  the  perfume  of  the 
rose,  and  the  ears  unconscious  of  the  moledy  of  the  fountain. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

i{  You  are  twenty-one  years  of  ago  to-morrow,  are  you 
not  ? ” said  Aubrey  to  his  cousin’s  wife  one  autumn  day  on 
the  terrace  of  Ladysrood. 

“ Yes;  it  seems  very  old/’ 

She  sighed  as  she  spoke  Aubrey  laughed,  then  he  sighed 
too. 


120 


GtllLDEBOY . 


u It  is  very  sad  if  you  can  feel  it  to  be  so/*  he  said  Serb 
ously. 

“ I do.  I feel  quite  old.  I suppose  a woman  who  is  not 99 
— she  was  about  to  say  “ not  happy,77  but  checked  herself  and 
said  instead,  “ who  has  lost  her  children  can  never  feel  young/7 

“ Not  young  at  twenty ! My  dear  Gladys,  you  must  be 
jesting,  though  it  is  a very  sad  jest.77 

u Oh  ! no.  I am  not  jesting  indeed,77  she  replied. 

Aubrey  looked  at  her  with  curiosity  and  tenderness. 
u Happiness  is  a matter  of  temperament,77  he  said,  vaguely. 

“ I suppose  so.77 

“ Who  should  feel  young  if  you  do  not  ? So  young  in 
years  as  you  are,  with  perfect  bodily  health,  and  all  wishes 
of  your  heart  satisfied  except  one,  which  no  doubt  will  be 
satisfied  ere  long.77 

She  did  not  answer. 

She  was  thinking  how  surely  on  the  morrow  she  would  find 
some  superb  jewel  which  she  did  not  want  lying  on  her  table 
as  a birthday  gift  from  her  lord ; and  how  equally  surely 
when  she  should  meet  him  later  in  the  morning  there  would 
be  the  indifference  in  his  caress  and  the  conventionality  in 
his  congratulation,  which  may  be  concealed  as  completely  and 
as  perfectly  as  kindliness  and  courtesy  can  conceal  them,  but 
which  yet  show  through  these  as  plainly  as  the  gilded  copper 
shows  in  a little  while  through  the  thin  gold.  How  much 
more  feeling  would  there  be  in  Aubrey’s  brief  warm  greet- 
ing, or  the  little  Latin  poem  which  her  father  would  be  sure 
to  send  up  to  her  at  morning,  penned  on  parchment  in  the 
style  of  the  Latin  booklets,  rolled  on  the  umbilicus  with 
carved  ivory  ends,  and  made  as  completely  like  such  a little 
messenger  of  the  Caesars7  times  as  scholarship  and  love  could 
make  it ! 

What  a difference  ! Oh,  what  a difference  ! Though  the 
little  booklet  would  only  have  cost  a few  hours7  labor,  and  the 
great  jewel  two  or  three  thousand  guineas  ! 

“ Do  you  think  anybody’s  wishes  are  ever  granted  ? 99  she 
said  now. 

Aubrey  hesitated  to  reply. 

“ Yes,  I think  they  are.  Very  often  we  do  not  like  them 
when  we  get  them,  but  that  is  not  the  fault  of  Fate  who  has 
humored  us  with  our  selected  toys.7' 

“ Have  you  had  your  wishes  ? 77 

No  j for  I always  wished  before  everything  for  a strictly 


GUILDEROY . 


121 


private  life,  wholly  beyond  all  possibility  of  comment  or  in- 
terference from  the  world.  As  it  is  I have  the  felicity  of 
being  one  of  those  people  who  cannot  move  a step  without 
reporters  being  after  them,  which  to  ine  so  absolutely  poisons 
all  existence  that  I could  willingly  change  places  with  any 
one  of  my  hinds  at  Balfrons.” 

“ Publicity  is  the  twin  of  Demos,”  said  Guilderoy,  hearing 
the  last  words  as  he  approached  them.  “ Between  them  they 
will  make  life  altogether  unsupportable  to  the  man  of  talent 
of  the  future.  No  one  will  do  anything  even  in  the  very 
least  excellent  or  original,  because  of  the  penalty  of  the  pub- 
lic pillory  which  will  await  it.” 

“ That  I believe,”  said  Aubrey.  “But  it  is,  I suppose, 
only  the  market  place  of  Athens  or  Syracuse  over  again,  with 
ostracism  or  petalism.” 

“There  were  at  least  unknown  worlds  to  which  to  migrate 
to  then,”  said  Guilderoy.  “You  were,  I believe,  trying  to 
teach  Gladys  more  enjoyment  of  such  a world  as  we  have.  I 
wish  you  could  succeed.  Who  is  it  had  said  that  beauty 
smileless  is  as  a fair  landscape  without  light  ? ” 

She  had  walked  a little  way  from  them  in  the  autumn  sun- 
shine. 

“ She  has  had  a great  sorrow,”  said  Aubrey.  “ The  sort 
of  sorrow  a woman  feels  acutely,  though  we  do  not.” 

“ That  I quite  understand,”  said  his  cousin,  with  some 
ennui . “But  all  that  kind  of  feeling  passes  with  time;  she 
is  very  young,  she  might  be  gayer  and  happier  if  she  chose, 
very  naturally  I think  and  with  great  advantage.  The  world 
would  like  her  better.  It  does  not  like  serious  women.” 
“ Is  she  so  very  serious  ? ” 

“ Can  you  doubt  it  ? She  takes  everything  seriously  : 
society,  duty,  pleasure,  fortune,  even  myself,  whom  no  woman 
ever  took  seriously  without  regretting  it ! ” 

He  laughed  as  he  spoke,  but  Aubrey  smiled  more  sadly. 

“ She  stands  in  a serious  relation  to  you.” 

“ Unfortunately.” 

The  word  escaped  him  without  thought.  She  returned 
nearer  to  them  at  that  moment,  the  pale  autumn  sunshine 
shining  on  her  uncovered  head,  and  her  slender  white  throat 
disclosed  by  a high  lace  collar,  like  those  in  Marie  Antoin- 
ette’s portraits,  opening  in  front  with  a knot  of  gardenias 
closing  it  on  her  breast. 

She  looked  older  than  her  years.  It  seemed  to  her  as  it 


122 


GUILDEROY. 


she  had  lived  half  a century  since  she  had  left  Christslea  on 
the  day  of  her  marriage,  now  nearly  four  years  before,  when 
her  father  had  walked  through  the  golden  gorse,  wishing 
that  it  might  be  a symbol  of  her  future  life. 

She  was  famous  as  one  of  the  patrician  beauties  of  Eng- 
land. 

For  the  world  she  had  just  that  mixture  of  success  and  of 
failure  which  made  Guilderoy  at  once  gratified  and  irritated. 

Her  great  beauty  could  not  be  contested ; the  “ grand 
manner  v which  had  come  to  her  instinctively  was  perfect  in 
its  high  breeding  and  comeliness.  Society  followed,  imi- 
tated, and  crowned  her.  But  she  was  not  liked ; men  thought 
her  cold,  women  considered  her  rude  ; everyone  who  knew 
her  was  jealous  of  her,  or  offended  by  her  in  some  way  or  an- 
other. The  world,  like  her  husband,  did  not  find  her 
“facile,”  and  in  the  frivolities  and  crazy  caprices  of  the  so- 
ciety of  the  close  of  this  century  she  was  alienated  and  stood 
aloof.  She  had  been  made  a leader  of  fashion  without  being 
even  aware  that  she  was  so.  A color  or  a flower,  a mode  or 
a place,  which  she  selected  became  at  once  celebrated  by  her 
choice  of  it.  There  is  great  caprice  in  all  forms  of  fame,  and 
in  none  more  so  than  in  the  fame  which  Society  awards  to 
one  of  its  members. 

Society  had  never  found  any  one  so  profoundly  ignorant  of 
fashion  as  she  was  when  she  first  appeared  in  it ; and  it  had 
seen  no  one  so  little  penetrated  by  its  temper  and  its  homage 
as  she  still  was.  Out  of  the  very  spirit  of  contradiction  it 
made  her  one  of  its  sovereigns,  though  the  sceptre  it  offered 
seemed  to  her  not  of  as  much  worth  as  any  stalk  of  a bulrush 
growing  by  the  mere  of  Ladysrood. 

When  a woman  is  happy  she  can  be  elastic  and  sympa- 
thetic even  to  what  she  dislikes  ; happiness  gives  supplenessf 
softness,  and  indeed  force  to  the  character  as  sunshine  ripens 
and  mellows  fruit. 

But  she  was  not  happy ; she  loved  her  husband  passion- 
ately, and  she  had  from  the  earliest  days  of  their  union  been 
conscious  that  he  was  impatient  and  weary  of  her.  She 
could  not  console  herself  with  small  things  as  women  usually 
can  do.  She  cared  scarcely  at  all  for  her  position,  her  influ- 
ence, the  pleasures  of  the  world,  or  the  extravagance  of  her 
toilettes;  and  the  flatteries  she  received  produced  no  more 
impression  on  her  than  the  beating  of  the  rain  against  hey 
oarriage  panels  as  she  went  to  Court, 


GUILDEBOY. 


123 


She  had  given  birth  to  two  male  children,  but  one  had  died 
before  birth  and  the  other  a few  months  afterwards.  It  was 
supposed  by  those  who  knew  her  that  her  want  of  interest  in 
all  which  went  on  around  her  was  due  to  this  disappoint- 
ment ; but  it  was  not  that  only  which  made  life  void  of  satis- 
faction to  her.  The  greatest  suffering  of  her  life  arose  from 
the  fact  that  her  fine  and  penetrating  intelligence  could  not 
let  her  be  blind  to  the  discovery  that  whatever  sensual  or 
sentimental  desire  had  hurried  Guilderoy  into  his  marriage, 
she  was  now  absolutely  nothing  in  his  existence ; nay,  was 
even  perhaps  something  which  perpetually  annoyed  and  irri- 
tated him  by  the  mere  sense  that  she  was  there,  forever,  in 
his  existence. 

Outwardly,  however,  all  was  still  well. 

“ Your  melancholy  predictions  are  happily  falsified,  you 
see,”  he  said  to  John  Vernon  one  day,  who  hesitated  a mo- 
ment before  he  replied. 

“ I am  sincerely  glad  to  hear  it.” 

“Your  tone  is  sombre  and  incredulous,  and  I fear  you 
doubt  it  still.” 

“ I am  afraid  that  of  marriage,  as  of  men,  one  is  forced  to 
say,  ‘Call  it  not  happy  till  its  end  is  seen.’  ” 

“ What,  after  all,  is  happiness  ? George  Sand  has  best 
defined  it,  ‘ C’est  un  eclair  qui  traverse  les  brumes  mono - 
tones  de  la  vie.9  99 

“ That  is  surely  rather  descriptive  of  ecstacy.  The  ecstacy 
which,  in  the  nature  of  things,  must  have  the  lightning’s 
brief  duration  as  it  has  its  brilliancy.  Happiness,  I have 
always  held,  is  rather  a matter  of  our  own  individual  temper- 
ament than  of  circumstances  or  of  the  passions.” 

“A  philosopher’s  view;  true,  no  doubt,  of  philosophers, 
hardly  of  mankind  in  general ; of  womankind,  certainly  not 
true.” 

“Ho.  Women  are  the  creatures  of  the  emotions  ; a cold 
word,  a letter  a day  late,  a sigh  which  they  overhear  and 
think  is  not  for  them,  suffices  to  make  them  wretched.  I 
hope  you  do  not  find  Gladys  over-sensitive  ? I could  hardly 
myself  tell  whether  she  were  or  not.  She  was  a child,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  rouse  her  feelings,  unless  it  were  a stray 
dog,  or  a fisherman’s  boat  that  foundered.” 

“ Ho,  I do  not  think  she  is  impressionable,”  replied  Guilds 
roy.  “ She  is  certainly  not  impassioned.” 


124 


GUTLLEROY. 


“ Ah!  ” Vernon  looked  at  him  with  a little  sigh.  * What 
did  I tell  you  ? She  was  years  too  young/* 

“ One  is  glad  of  a certain  coldness  in  one’s  wife.  Coldnes* 
is  not  the  word  I ought  to  use,  however;  there  is  an  absence 
of  passion  in  her ; I do  not  regret  it ; it  is  a great  shield  in 
the  world.” 

“ You  would  regret  it  if  you  loved  her,”  thought  Vernon. 
“ Or,  rather,  if  you  had  really  loved  her  you  would  have 
taken  pains  to  conjure  it  away.  I dare  say  you  alarmed  her 
at  first  with  the  violence  of  your  ardor,  and  then  you  chilled 
her  with  the  carelessness  of  your  tepid  affections,  and  be- 
tween the  two  the  soul  in  her  is  scared,  and  shuts  itself  up 
like  an  oyster,  closing  its  shell  on  its  pearl.” 

He  was  not  more  satisfied  than  he  had  been  before  their 
marriage. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  acquiescent  contentment  of 
Guilderoy  might  very  easily  drift  on  into  mere  indifference, 
and  if  the  heart  of  Gladys  were  now  still  asleep,  it  would 
assuredly  awake  some  day. 

“What  idiotcy  is  marriage!”  he  thought.  “A  man  sees 
a woman,  a woman  a man,  with  no  knowledge,  no  experience 
of  each  other ; very  often  without  even  any  affinity  they 
enter  into  the  closest  of  all  human  relations  and  undertake 
to  pass  their  lives  together.  It  is  the  habit  of  its  apologists 
to  say  that  it  works  well,  idiotic  though  it  looks.  It  does  not 
work  well.  It  hurries  men  and  women  blindly  into  unions 
which  often  become  absolutely  hateful  to  them,  stifling  to 
their  development  and  intolerably  irritating  to  their  inclina- 
tions. It  flies  in  the  face  of  all  the  laws  of  sex.  It  is  a fig- 
ment of  the  social  code,  irrational,  unreal,  and  setting  up  £* 
gigantic  lie  as  the  scaffolding  which  supports  society.  Nom- 
inally monogamous,  all  cultured  society  is  polygamous  ^ 
sometimes  even  polyandrous.  Why  is  the  fact  not  reeog* 
nized  and  frankly  admitted  ? Why  do  we  adhere  to  the  fh> 
tion  of  a fidelity  which  is  neither  in  nature  nor  in  feeling 
possible  to  man  ? Because  property  lays  its  foundations  most 
easily  by  means  of  marriage,  therefore  the  individual  is  sac-* 
rificed  to  property.  I confess  that  it  makes  one  almost  side 
with  the  Socialists.” 

“ It  is  not  very  long  since  you  came  nere  on  the  wings  of 
a headlong  and  unconsidered  desire,”  he  said  aloud.  “ You 
have  had  your  desire : can  you  honestly  declare  that  you  are 
any  the  happier  for  it  ?” 


aUILVEROY. 


12$ 


Gruilderoy  was  embarrassed.  He  was  naturally  sincere. 

“ If  I be  not,”  be  said,  with  effort,  “ the  fault  is  certainly 
my  own,  and  no  one  else’s.” 

He  knew  that  he  infinitely  regretted  his  marriage,  but  he 
eould  not  say  so  to  John  Vernon. 

He  regretted  it  for  five  hundred  reasons  which  were  for- 
ever rising  up  in  his  memory.  He  regretted  it  because  he 
was  impatient  of  its  obligations,  and  he  received  none  of  the 
compensation  which  he  had  anticipated.  His  wife  was 
lovely,  admired,  and  perfect  in  her  manner  in  the  world,  but 
he  did  not  believe  that  she  had  one  single  opinion  or  feeling 
in  common  with  him.  She  gave  him  the  constant  impression 
that  she  disapproved  of  all  he  said  and  all  he  did;  she  was 
neither  pliant  nor  “ facile  ” ; she  obeyed  his  wishes  invaria- 
bly, but  there  was  something  about  her  passive  obedience 
which  irritated  him  more  than  any  refusal  could  have  done. 
Physically  he  had  tired  of  her  as  absolutely  as  though  she 
had  had  neither  youth  nor  loveliness,  and  mentally  he  had 
early  concluded  that  hex  nature  and  character  were  wholly 
unsuited  to  his  own, 

What  he  most  wished  for — living  children,  she  had  failed 
to  give  him ; and  this  had  been  his  principal  object  in  marry- 
ing at  all;  not  from  any  philoprogenitiveness,  but  from  pride 
of  race  and  strong  dislike  of  the  distant  relative  who  was  his 
heir  presumptive.  After  all,  it  was  the  common  doom,  he 
thought ; no  marriages  were  happy,  the  utmost  that  the  best 
of  them  became  was  a mutual  agreement  to  make  the  best  of 
a mistake.  And  little  by  little,  every  day  and  every  hour, 
she  became  less  and  less  in  his  thoughts,  of  less  importance 
in  his  projects  and  wishes,  of  less  influence  on  his  temper 
and  temperament,  of  less  prominence  in  his  life  and  his  feel- 
ings. On  the  whole  it  had  been  a failure,  and  he  knew  it ; 
but  he  was  always  desirous  that  his  society  and  his  friends 
should  be  as  much  blinded  to  the  fact  as  was  possible.  He 
was  careful  of  every  observance  and  consideration  for  her  be- 
fore the  world  ; for  to  think  that  the  world  ever  talked  of  their 
union  as  infelicitous  would  have  been  still  more  intolerable 
to  him  than  the  infelicity  itself. 

And  yet  he  was  aware  that  he  had  a great  deal  to  be  proud 
of  in  the  woman  who  bore  his  name,  and  a great  deal  to  be 
grateful  for  in  that  pride  and  delicacy  in  her  character  which 
would,  he  was  sure,  prevent  her  from  ever  jeopardizing  his 
honor  or  her  own. 


126 


GUILDEBOT. 


u On  a les  defauts  de  ses  qualitfe”  he  thought  often.  uIt 
she  had  been  more  impressionable  and  more  6 facile ’ to  me, 
she  would  have  been  so  to  others  as  well  as  to  myself.” 

A man’s  error.  One  of  the  many  errors  which  are  very 
common  to  men,  and  stand  forever  between  them  and  their 
true  comprehension  of  women. 

Sometimes,  when  he  was  in  a contented  mood,  he  told  him- 
self that  it  was  as  well  as  he  could  have  hoped  ; she  was  much 
handsomer  than  most  high-bred  in  manner  and  feeling  and, 
if  too  silent,  her  silence  at  least  preserved  her  from  the  ca - 
quetages  and  imprudences  which  compromise  socially  so  many 
women.  If  she  spoke  little,  she  at  least  spoke  well  when  she 
did  speak.  She  looked  admirably  effective  in  any  one  of  his 
houses  ; whether  at  Ladysrood,  or  in  London,  Paris,  or  Venice. 
She  had  that  look  as  of  an  old  portrait — a Reynolds,  a Gains- 
borough, a Mignard,  or  a Giorgione,  which  makes  a woman 
accord  with  old  and  picturesque  and  stately  residences. 

On  the  whole  it  might  have  been  worse,  he  often  told  him- 
self; but  then  this  resignation  is  not  the  language  of  hap- 
piness. 

“ You  always  saw  the  Princess  in  Perdita,”  said  Hilda 
Sunbury  once  to  her  Cousin  Aubrey ; and  he  answered, 
“ Yes  ; it  was  very  easy  to  see  that.  I think  the  heart  is 
always  Perdita’ s,  always  sighing  a little  for  the  shepherd’s 
hut  and  the  pressed  curds  and  the  oaten  cake.” 

“What  a simpleton  if  she  is  !”  remarked  Lady  Sunbury^ 
who  had  no  patience  with  shepherds  or  with  those  who  sighed 
for  them.  “Because  she  has  not  even  the  very  smallest  of 
stones  in  her  shoe,  she  goes  miles  out  of  her  way  to  pick  up 
one  to  put  in  it ! ” 

“ What  pebble  does  she  pick  up  ? ” asked  Aubrey. 

“ How  should  I know  ? ” replied  Lady  Sunbury.  “ She 
picks  up  ever  so  many,  I believe.  The  most  impossible 
thing  of  all  is  that  she  is  sentimentally  in  love  with  Evelyn. 
As  if  there  could  be  ever  anything  surer  to  drive  him  head- 
long away  from  her  ! He  has  been  a man  of  many,  many 
caprices,  but  nothing  would  ever  be  so  appalling  to  him  as  to 
be  loved  with  anything  approaching  a grande  passion . He 
cannot  endure  worry  ; he  abhors  the  expression  of  anything 
like  strong  emotion.  He  is  amiability  itself  so  long  as  you 
do  not  fatigue  him,  or  bore  him  ; but  the  moment  you  do 
either  he  jmts  a cross  against  your  name  and  avoids  you. 
If  she  does  not  understand  that,  he  will  avoid  her.  Avoid 


GVILBEROY. 


127 


her  permanently ! He  was  never  in  love  with  her.  His 
fancy  was  captivated  and  his  obstinacy  was  charmed  by 
the  idea  of  marrying  what  he  admired  and  I disliked. 
That  was  all.  He  thought  her  lovely  and  he  wished  for 
her ; her  loveliness  has  lasted,  but  his  wishes  have  not 
lasted  with  it.” 

“ Who  was  it  said  that  in  a year  it  is  just  the  same  to 
you  whether  your  wife  is  a Venus  or  a Hottentot?”  said 
Aubrey.  u I do  not  go  quite  so  far  as  that,  but  I am  certain 
that  Venus,  when  she  can  always  be  had,  does  cease  to  seem 
beautiful  to  her  possessor.  I once  asked  an  Austrian  abbot 
if  he  could  ever  weary  of  the  view  before  his  windows  over 
the  Danube,  it  was  so  beautiful ; and  the  abbot  said  to  me, 
i Dear  sir,  I have  looked  at  that  view  so  long  that  it  seems 
marvellous  to  me  you  can  find  any  beauty  in  it  at  all ! } That 
is  human  nature,  in  a monastery  and  out  of  it.” 

Lady  Sunbury  was  a woman  who  had  no  illusions,  and  she 
was  extremely  angry  with  people  who  were  silly  enough  to 
nourish  them.  They  seemed  to  her  the  most  useless  things 
in  the  world ; exorbitant  in  their  demands,  baseless  in  their 
formation,  and  foredoomed  before  their  birth  to  disappoint- 
ment. Material  advantages  were,  after  all,  what  really 
mattered,  she  thought;  ease,  affluence,  and  influence  the  only 
real  enjoyment  of  existence ; and  she — whose  whole  life  for 
twenty  years  had  been  made  painful  and  irritating  to  her  by 
financial  difficulties,  by  conjugal  quarrels,  by  standing  the 
helpless  witness  of  extravagance  and  folly  repeated  from 
lather  to  son,  and  all  the  incessant  mortifications  which  awai'j 
the  contrast  of  a great  position  with  a narrow  fortune — felt 
no  patience  with  what  appeared  to  her  the  mere  sentimental, 
childish,  imaginary  sorrows  of  her  young  sister-in-law ; they 
seemed  to  her  like  weeping  for  the  moon. 

• “ I believe  you  encourage  her  in  it,”  she  added. 

u I do  not  see  her  enough  to  encourage  anything,  good  or 
bad,”  said  Aubrey. 

It  was  not  strictly  true.  Whenever  his  cousin  was  in 
England  he  saw  his  cousin’s  wife,  and  found  time  to  do  so 
even  when  his  crowded  and  harassed  life  could  ill  afford  the 
few  spare  hours  in  it  to  any  mere  personal  interest.  She 
had  interested  him  on  the  first  day  that  he  had  called  on  her 
in  the  Watteau  cabinet  amongst  the  roses  and  had  found 
her  tired  of  the  weight  of  her  jewels  and  of  the  darkness  and 
noise  of  the  great  capital. 


128 


GU1LDER0Y. 


Many  times  during  the  London  season  he  put  aside 
weighty  labors  to  find  moments  for  her  boudoir,  and  when 
he  had  no  day  for  anyone  else  he  would  always  take  one, 
amidst  the  stress  of  political  excitement,  to  pass  a few  hours 
at  Ladysrood  whenever  his  cousin  was  there.  He  was  a 
man  of  strong  feeling  which  slumbered  underneath  the 
prosaic  cares  of  a political  career.  His  imagination  was  still 
alive,  and  he  had  a vague  consciousness  that  he  was  watch- 
ing the  opening  scenes  of  a story  which  might  possibly  turn 
some  day  to  tragedy,  whenever  he  found  himself  associated 
at  any  of  the  great  gatherings  of  Ladysrood,  or  listened  to 
any  expression  of  divergent  opinion  between  Guilderoy  and 
his  wife. 

“ She  might  be  perfectly  happy  from  one  year  to  another,” 
continued  Lady  Sunbury  irritably.  “ Has  she  no  idea  of  all 
that  she  owes  to  Providence  for  having  given  her  a companion 
who  is  good  tempered,  and  a purse  which  is  full  ? Does  she 
expect  a Prince  Charming  like  my  brother  to  sit  always  at 
her  feet  ? Does  she  think  that  because  she  has  married  him 
all  other  women  cease  to  exist  for  him  ? Does  she  expect  to 
make  a homing  pigeon  of  a migratory  nightingale  ? She 
must  be  a fool ; absolutely  a fool ! ” 

“No,  she  is  not  that ; not  that  by  any  means,”  said  Aubrey. 
“ She  is  only  a woman — very  much  in  love,  very  ignorant  of 
life,  and  totally  unable  to  understand  the  caprices  and  vaga- 
ries of  the  male  temperament.” 

“Well,  if  that  goes  on  she  will  be  a fool/'  said  Hilda  Sun- 
bury. “ You  will  admit  so  much  ? How  can  she  live  in  the 
world  day  and  night  as  she  does  and  not  learn  something  ?” 
“Perhaps  she  will  learn  more  than  he  will  like,  some 
day.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? ” 

“ What  I say.  I do  not  mean  anything  especial ; but  I 
think  as  a general  rule  women  who  have  two  grains  of  sense 
do  not  continue  jealous  of  a man  who  is  indifferent  to  them, 
but  rather  turn  the  tables  and  give  him  cause  for  jealousy.” 
“Is  that  the  advice  you  will  give  her  ?” 

“ I shall  not  give  it  her  certainly,  but  you  may  be  sure  a 
great  many  men  will.” 

“ And  do  you  think  she  will  take  it  ? ” 

“ I should  say  that  would  entirely  depend  on  her  mood  at 
the  moment.” 

*0n  her  mood : not  on  her  principles  ? 


GUILDEROY, . 


129 


“ My  dear  Hilda — • point  de phrases.  That  sense  of  princi- 
ple resists  in  a woman  all  temptation  from  without  only  just 
so  long  as  it  is  not  tempted  from  within.  So  long  as  she  is 
still  in  love  with  Evelyn  he  will  be  safe,  unless  in  a moment 
of  pique  she  revenges  herself  in  the  endeavor  to  make  him 

feel  ; but  the  instant  she  ceases  to  care well,  I do  not 

suppose  that  the  Guilderoy  scutcheon  will  then  be  the  reli- 
giously sacred  thing  to  her  which  it  appears  to  you.  I have 
great  belief  in  the  affections  of  women,  but  I have  no  belief 
in  what  is  termed  their  virtue.  I mean  that  they  are  to  be 
controlled  through  the  one,  not  through  the  other.  Moralists 
gay  that  a soul  should  resist  passion.  They  might  as  well 
say  that  a house^should  resist  an  earthquake/' 

“What  a doctrine!”  exclaimed  Lady  Sunbury,  shocked. 
Aubrey  looked  at  her  with  a smile. 

“ Oh,  there  are  souls  which  are  passionate,  no  doubt,  as 
there  are  houses  which  are  not  built  over  a volcanic  current,” 
he  said,  and  thought  to  himself  : — 

“ What  should  you  know — you  thoroughly  excellent  and 
most  irritating  of  Englishwomen  ? What  should  you  know  ? 
Your  whole  soul  has  been  centered  in  externals,  in  ceremo- 
nials, in  social  dignities.  In  social  duties,  bound  in  the  buck- 
ram of  routine,  and  stiff  with  the  starch  of  position.  What 
should  you  know  of  all  the  great  passions  which  make  life 
bloom  like  a Sicilian  pasture  in  flower  in  May,  only  often  to 
lay  it  waste  under  lava,  as  Etna  pours  fire  and  stones  over 
the  asphodels  and  the  irises  ? ” 

But  he  did  not  say  so  ; she  would  have  thought  him  mad; 
and  she,  like  the  world,  knew  nothing  of  the  tragedy  in  his 
own  life  which  made  him  so  infinitely  pitiful  to  all  woes  of 
the  passions  and  emotions ; she,  like  the  world,  thought  him 
a man  without  a grain  of  romance  in  his  nature. 

Aubrey  perceived,  what  his  cousin  did  not  take  the  trouble 
to  see,  that  Gladys  was  not  happy  ; was  depressed  by  an 
affection — very  strong  on  her  part  once,  very  slight  on  her 
husband’s — and  was  restrained  at  once  by  pride  or  by  shy- 
ness from  ever  expressing  anything  which  she  felt. 

She  was  not  demonstrative  by  nature,  and  if  she  had  been 
so  she  would  have  hesitated  to  risk  wearying  Guilderoy  by 
the  expression  of  what  she  felt  was  indifferent  to  him.  The 
demonstrations  of  his  passion  had  not  lasted  long  ; they  had 
left  her  with  remembrance  of  a fervor  and  a frenzy  which 
she  could  neyer  forgot,  and  which  made  the  mere  mechanical 


130 


GUILDEROT. 


caresses  of  habit  wholly  intolerable  to  her.  If  she  had 
never  been  loved  in  this  way  she  might  have  lived  content- 
edly without  it ; but  the  intoxication  of  those  first  weeks  in 
Venice  had  taught  her  all  that  love  could  be.  To  become 
after  then  merely  the  mistress  of  his  house,  merely  the 
rarely  remembered  object  of  conventional  embraces,  was  to  her 
an  unendurable  torture.  She  appeared  to  him  cold  when  her 
whole  senses  and  emotions  were  writhing  under  the  care^ 
lessness  and  indifference  of  his. 

“ He  only  recollects  my  existence  now  and  then  because 
he  wishes  for  children/’  she  felt  bitterly.  He  was  always 
courteous,  kind,  and  gentle ; but  as  every  month  passed 
away  she  felt  more  and  more  that  he  had  never  really  cared 
for  her.  He  had  married  her  out  of  caprice,  passing  admira- 
tion, fancy  for  what  was  new  and  strange  to  him,  and  the 
sense  that  he  must  some  day  marry  or  see  his  title  and 
estates  pass  to  persons  whom  he  detested.  Her  clear  and 
quick  comprehension  taught  her  this  very  soon,  and  occasional 
phrases  which  she  overheard  from  the  women  most  inti- 
mate with  him  confirmed  her  knowledge.  She  felt  that  those 
who  liked  her  pitied  her,  whilst  those  who  liked  him,  the  far 
larger  number,  regarded  her  with  something  more  disdain- 
ful than  pity.  The  sense  of  that  gave  her  a calmness  quite 
foreign  to  her  nature,  and  a strength  of  self-repression  inju- 
rious at  her  years. 

She  had  had  everything  to  learn  of  the  world  into  which 
she  was  launched ; but  she  soon  became  acquainted  with  its 
intricacies,  its  meanings  a demi-mots,  its  profound  heartless- 
ness and  unscrupulousness  veiled  by  such  polished  externals. 
She  had  at  first  failed  to  comprehend  many  things  which 
passed  around  her,  but  little  by  little  she  had  learned  to 
attach  their  full  meaning  to  them,  and  thus  she  arrived,  in 
the  third  year  of  her  married  life,  to  a perception  that  the 
affections  which  Guilderoy  did  not  give  to  her  he  took  else- 
where. He  did  not,  indeed,  ever  offend  her  by  notorious  or 
openly-displayed  attachments,  but  she  knew  that  the  society 
of  almost  any  other  woman  was  more  agreeable  to  him  than 
her  own.  She  saw  that  he  was  sought,  flattered,  admired, 
tempted,  on  all  sides  and  she  saw  that  he  did  not  resist,  or 
try  to  resist  the  temptation.  Whether  they  were  in  London 
or  Paris,  in  Italian  cities  or  German  watering  places,  or  at 
their  own  country  place,  or  the  country  places  of  their 
friends,  she  saw  that  any  woman,  seen  for  the  first  time,  and 


GUILDEROY. 


131 


possessing  beauty  or  charm  enough  to  attract  him,  became 
for  the  time  being,  infinitely  more  the  mistress  of  his 
thoughts  and  feelings  than  she  had  ever  had  power  to  be. 

“ I wish  you  would  endeavor  to  be  amusing,”  he  said, 
more  than  once  to  her.  “ I assure  you  in  these  days  Helen 
or  Briseis  herself  would  have  no  chance  in  the  world  if  she 
were  not  amusing.” 

“ And  were  I amusing,  1 should  have  no  power  to  amuse 
you,”  she  thought,  though  she  did  not  say  it.  She  was  not 
amusing,  because  she  was  not  amused.  She  was  not  amused 
because  she  was  not  happy.  In  happiness  one  enjoys  trifles 
like  a child,  and  the  great  world  only  seems  to  us  a brilliant 
decor  de  scene  set  out  on  purpose  to  illustrate  and  illuminate 
our  own  romance  which  is  being  played  on  its  stage.  But 
in  the  depression  of  repressed  affections  or  disappointed 
illusions,  the  best  of  its  pageantry  leaves  us  depressed  and 
displeased.  The  world  thought  Lady  Guilderoy  stupid,  and 
when  it  was  disturbed  in  this  opinion  by  some  unexpected 
allusion  or  some  curt  incisive  phrase  which  showed  in  her 
both  the  habits  of  study  and  the  powers  of  sarcasm,  it  dis- 
liked her  still  more  than  when  it  had  believed  that  her 
lovely  mouth  could  only  drop  monosyllables. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  only  person,  besides  her  father,  who  saw  her  wholly  at 
her  best,  and  quite  as  she  was,  was  Aubrey.  In  great  re- 
ceptions, in  large  house  parties,  in  all  the  crowd  and  move- 
ment of  fashionable  life,  she  was  always  glad  to  see  Aubrey 
come  to  her  side  and  to  feel  the  shield  of  his  kindly  friend- 
ship between  her  and  the  impertinences  of  fine  ladies  and  the 
embarrassing  homage  of  men  who,  seeing  that  she  was  neg- 
lected, made  sure  that  she  could  be  consoled.  He  did  much 
for  her  that  Guilderoy  had  never  dreamed  of  doing  and  would 
not  have  had  patience  to  do  if  he  had.  He  gave  her  many  indi- 
cations of  all  that  she  needed  to  know  in  the  bewildering  mazes 
of  fashion  and  precedence.  He  got  for  her  the  good-will  of 
many  persons  of  power  and  influence.  He  explained  to  her 
many  things  which  astonished  and  troubled  her,  and  he  made 


132 


GUILDER  OY. 


her  London  receptions  successful  and  distinguished.  The 
world  obeyed  any  hint  from  him  eagerly,  and  all  his  social 
power,  which  was  vast,  he  put  out  on  behalf  of  his  cousin’s 
wife. 

“ Nothing  would  enrage  and  estrange  Evelyn  so  greatly  as 
to  find  her  a social  failure/’  he  thought  very  often,  u and  yet 
he  will  not  take  the  trouble  to  stretch  out  his  little  finger  to 
prevent  her  being  one.” 

And  what  his  cousin  failed  to  do,  Aubrey  did. 

“ It  is  a little  like  Achilles  spinning  for  me  to  interfere  in 
these  things,”  he  said  with  a smile,  as  he  corrected  her  invi- 
tation list,  explained  to  her  questions  of  precedence,  and  told 
her  why  one  duchess  was  a great  sovereign  revered  by  all 
society,  and  another  duchess  was  a mere  dowdy  whose  word 
nobody  attended  to  or  asked.  All  these  things  were  trifles 
which  were  wholly  insignificant  in  his  sight,  occupied  as  he 
was  with  the  great  cares  of  public  life,  but  from  his  birth  and 
position  he  was  familiar  with  them ; he  knew  their  power  to 
make  or  mar  a woman’s  entry  into  the  great  world,  and  he  had 
the  power  to  control  all  their  mysterious  influences ; and  all 
that  it  was  necessary  for  her  to  know  and  avoid,  she  learned 
from  him. 

“ Evelyn  should  do  all  this  for  you,”  he  said  to  her  once. 
But  his  cousin  did  not,  and  never  would  have  done,  so  Aubrey 
did  it  for  him. 

“ She  has  one  great  impediment  to  success  in  this  age  of 
vulgarity  and  new  families,”  he  said  once  to  his  brother 
Ronald. 

“ What  is  that  ? ” asked  Lord  Ronald. 

“ High  breeding,”  answered  Aubrey. 

Yet  despite  this  drawback  he  succeeded  in  making  her,  al- 
most against  herself,  a leader  of  society.  He  knew  that 
Guilderoy  would  never  pardon  a woman  who  bore  his  name 
if  she  did  not  attain  eminence  in  society.  Guilderoy  imag- 
ined that  he  attached  no  value  to  social  opinion,  and 
weighed  nothing  in  its  scales.  But  he  deceived  himself  in 
that  as  in  many  another  estimate  of  his  feelings,  and  unless 
the  purest  silver  had  possessed  the  hall  mark  he  would  never 
have  rated  it  as  silver. 

€i  You  are  very  kind  to  Gladys,”  he  said  to  his  cousin  once 
or  twice,  but  he  was  never  aware  of  all  that  he  owed  to 
Aubrey,  and  that  if  his  wife  received  princes  and  princesses 
with  a perfect  manner,  if  she  filled  her  houses  with  the  best 


GUILDEROY. 


133 


and  only  the  best  people,  if  she  never  made  an  error  in  the 
date  of  a title,  or  a mistake  in  the  smaller  intricacies  of  eti- 
quette and  precedence,  it  was  due  entirely  to  the  man  who 
sometimes,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  was  late  at  a Cabinet 
Council,  or  tardy  in  speaking  before  a division,  because  he 
had  been  giving  lessons  in  social  policy  to  John  Vernon’s 
daughter. 

“ These  are  very  little  things,  both  you  and  I consider,” 
said  Aubrey  to  her.  “ Yes,  they  are  indeed  the  absurdest  of 
trifles,  and  it  is  perhaps  wonderful  that  a society  on  the  brink 
of  disintegration,  as  English  society  is,  should  still  make  so 
much  of  them.  But  it  is  just  the  knowledge  of  them,  or  the 
ignorance  of  them,  which  marks  a woman  of  the  world  from 
a parvenue.  Guilderoy  wishes  you  to  be  a woman  of  the 
world,  so  omit  nothing  which  is  necessary  to  the  education  of 
the  world.  Besides,  I confess  that  social  etiquette  has  a cer- 
tain value,  if  only  in  the  maintenance  of  some  standard  for 
manners;  I wish  in  some  things  that  we  had  more  of  it \ I 
wish  it  were  not  possible  for  an  American  adventuress  to  en- 
tertain the  Prince  of  Wales,  or  for  an  English  brewer  to  be 
hoisted  into  the  House  of  Lords  because  he  has  made  money 
by  brewing  and  been  useful  in  elections.  I know  this  latter 
possibility  has  been  called  the  strength  of  England  ; but  it 
has,  on  the  contrary,  been  and  is  her  very  greatest  weakness. 
For  it  has  made  social  life  a hotbed  for  aspiring  toadyism, 
has  made  political  life  a manure  heap  for  the  propagation  of 
mushroom  nobility,  and  has  enabled  a minister  to  force 
measures  on  the  country  which  the  country  disapproves,  be- 
cause he  can  bribe  his  supporters  by  the  whispered  promise 
of  peerages.  If  new  peers  must  be  made,  it  would  be  better 
to  call  up  all  the  Victoria  Cross  men  to  the  Upper  House 
than  to  make  nobility  ridiculous  by  conferring  it  on  trades- 
men. The  Victoria  Cross  men  would  at  least  allow  of  some 
*ort  of  analogy  to  the  old  reasons  for  knighthood. 

Gladys  always  listened  and  followed  him  with  sincere  in« 
terest  when  he  spoke  of  these  things.  Her  father  had  been 
used  to  converse  with  her  at  times  on  serious  and  public 
matters,  and  all  the  problems  of  government  and  history  pos- 
sessed much  more  interest  for  her  than  the  fashionable  friv- 
olities of  the  hour. 

“ It  will  be  time  to  think  of  politics  twenty  years  hence,” 
said  Guilderoy  tocher,  but  she  thought  of  them  already,  and 
often  went  taihe  Ladies’  Gallery  to  hear  Aubrey, 


134 


GUlLDEROr. 


He  spoke  well ; not  with  any  great  brilliancy  of  rhetoric, 
but  with  admirable  lucidity  and  logic,  great  force  of  persua- 
sion, great  power  of  invective  held  in  calm  reserve,  and  that 
tone  of  perfect  courtesy  and  scholarship  which  have  been, 
until  the  last  dozen  years,  the  distinguishing  glory  of  the 
House  of  Commons. 

“ Why  do  you  never  speak  ? ” she  asked  once  of  Guilderoy, 
who  answered  impatiently : 

“It  is  of  no  use  to  speak  in  the  Lords.  Besides,  I have 
never  spoken.  If  I were  to  rise  now  they  would  think  I had 
gone  mad.  It  is  of  no  kind  of  use  to  enter  political  life  un- 
less one  has  been  trained  by  having  passed  one’s  early  years 
in  the  Commons.  I could  never  have  had  that  parliamentary 
education.  I succeeded  my  father  when  I was  a child  of  five 
years  old.” 

“But  you  have  great  talents,  they  all  say.  My  father 
says  so,  too  ! ” 

“ I am  not  sure  that  I have  any.  The  world  and  your 
father  are  too  complimentary  to  me.  But  I have  at  all 
events  the  common  sense  not  to  spoil  my  whole  life  by  ef- 
forts for  which  I am  wholly  unfitted,  and  which  would  be 
assuredly  wholly  unprofitable.” 

“ Aubrey’s  are  not  unprofitable.” 

“ I should  not  venture  to  say  they  were,  but  I am  quite 
sure  he  is  not  such  a blind  optimist  as  to  be  satisfied  with 
their  results.  Parliamentary  government  is  the  best  ma- 
chine that  ever  was  constructed  for  grinding  down  superior- 
ity into  mediocrity  ; that  is  why  it  is  so  immensely  popular 
with  the  middle  classes.” 

“ But  if  you  believe  in  oligarchy,  you  might  at  least  sup- 
port that  if  you  were  conspicuous  in  public  life.” 

“ I never  said  I believed  in  it,  my  dear.  All  I am  entirely 
convinced  of  is  that  the  power  of  no  man,  whether  Aubrey 
or  another,  will  check  permanently  the  gradual  breaking  up 
of  England,  which  is  being  brought  about  by  the  inevitable 
decadence  into  which  all  nations  fall.” 

“ I do  not  like  to  think  it.” 

“No  one  likes  it;  but  our  liking  or  our  disliking  will  not 
alter  the  philosophy  of  history.” 

“ But  do  you  not  feel  that  our  own  lives  lead  to  it  ? Do 
you  not  see  that  society  is  so  foolish,  so  extravagant,  so  self- 
ish, so  crowded,  that  it  must  make  those  outside  of  it  despise 
it  even  while  they  envy  it  ? You  have  said  yourself  that 


GUILDEROr. 


135 


there  is  neither  elegance  nor  dignity  in  it,  only  an  immense 
expenditure,  and  a feverish  hurry.  You  have  said  yourself 
that  instead  of  Maecenas  we  have  a nobility  which  sends  Its 
libraries  and  its  picture  galleries  to  the  auction  room ; which 
rather  than  give  up  its  racing  and  betting,  its  foreign  baths 
and  London  excesses,  will  see  its  old  houses  stripped,  or  its 
woods  felled,  or  its  collections  bought  by  the  Jews.  I have 
heard  you  say  that,  or  similar  things,  a thousand  times/7 

“ Certainly,  my  dear ; and  does  any  Cuyp  out  of  Ladys- 
rood,  any  Murillo  out  of  this  house,  go  to  Christie’s  through 
me  ? I have  never  cut  a stick  of  timber  which  it  was  not 
absolutely  needful  to  cut  for  the  health  and  the  growth  of 
the  woods  themselves.  When  I have  been  pressed  for 
money,  which  has  happened,  though  my  income  is  large,  I 
have  never  sold  my  family  Holbeins  nor  my  ancestral  oaks. 
I have  a very  strong  sense  of  noblesse  oblige , though  I have 
not,  I admit,  the  virtues  of  my  cousin  Aubrey.77 

He  spoke  with  some  irritation,  and  for  the  first  time  a 
vague  sense  of  annoyance,  at  the  opinion  she  had  of  Aubrey, 
gtirred  in  him. 

“ He  and  I,77  he  continued,  “ have  always  been  the  indus- 
trious and  the  idle  apprentices  in  the  eyes  of  our  families. 
He  early  chose  Athene  and  I Yenus.  But  though  I grant 
he  has  a monopoly  of  the  virtues,  yet  I have  an  ounce  of 
conscience  left  I assure  you,  and  alt  that  I have  inherited 
will  pass  out  of  my  hands  as  it  came  into  them,  intact  to 
your  children.77 

She  resigned  the  argument ; she  could  not  press  on  him 
the  fact  that  his  life  was  utterly  self-indulgent,  however  free 
it  might  be  from  the  avarice  or  the  indignity  which  allowed 
others  to  send  their  household  goods  to  the  market, 

“ Who  has  filled  your  head  with  these  fancies  of  utility  ? 77 
he  said,  irritably.  “ Your  father  or  my  cousin  ? What  a 
singular  thing  it  is  that  when  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine 
women  out  of  a thousand  only  ask  to  enjoy  themselves,  I 
should  have  married  the  one  in  a thousand  who  knows  noth- 
ing of  enjoyment  ? 77 

And  he  left  her  with  some  impatience.  She  could  neither 
persuade  nor  allure  him,  because  she  possessed  no  influence 
upon  him. 

u She  will  be  all  her  life  that  most  depressing  thing,  a 
conscientious  woman,77  he  thought,  with  a smile  and  a sigh, 
as  he  drove  to  his  favorite  club.  “ If  she  had  married  Au- 


136 


GUILDEEOT. 


bre}^  she  would  have  been  a million  times  happier,  and  I * 

What  would  he  have  done  ? Would  he  have  remained  at 
the  feet  of  the  only  woman  whom  he  had  ever  loved  with  any 
love  approaching  a strong  passion  ? He  was  not  sure  ; hut 
what  we  might  have  done  almost  always  looks  to  us  so  much 
fairer  than  what  we  have  done. 

He  did  full  justice  to  his  wife’s  mind  and  character;  he 
even  in  theory  admired  them,  hut  in  actual  fact  he  was  only 
bored  by  them.  She  had  not  known  how  to  interest  and  di- 
vert him  ; she,  was  transparently  truthful,  full  of  high  ideals 
and  high  thoughts,  and  possessed  with  the  terrible  earnest- 
ness of  youth  ; but  she  only  wearied  him,  and  a woman  far 
her  inferior,  morally  and  mentally,  would  have  had  far  more 
power  to  move  him  when  she  wished  if  she  had  only  had 
more  pliability  and  more  gayety  of  temperament.  He  required 
to  be  amused  as  a petulant  and  spoilt  child  requires  it.  There 
were  always  countless  women  ready  to  do  it ; he  went  to 
them  and  left  Aubrey  to  bring  blue  books  and  explain  inter- 
national law  to  his  wife. 

u It  is  his  metier  ! ” he  said  with  some  contempt.  He  did 
not  perceive,  because  he  did  not  study  her  enough  to  see  it, 
that  what  prevented  her  from  having  such  enjoyment  of  life 
as  would  have  been  in  accordance  with  her  nature  and  he? 
age  was  the  sense,  perpetually  weighing  on  her,  that  he  re- 
gretted his  hasty  marriage. 

She  felt  that  she  was  a burden  on  him  ; and  though  she 
never  said  it,  its  consciousness  was  ever  present  with  her. 

The  existence  of  incessant  change  which  she  perpetually 
led  gave  her  rather  sadness  and  bewilderment  than  pleasure. 
The  few  months  they  remained  in  the  London  house,  the  few 
weeks  spent  at  Ladysrood,  the  changes  from  Paris,  to  Venice, 
to  Cannes,  to  Aix,  to  Baden;  according  to  the  season  of  the 
year  and  the  moods  of  fashion,  gave  her  a sense  of  homeless- 
ness and  restlessness  which  were  not  suited  to  her  tempera- 
ment. Life  did  not  seem  to  her  spent  aright  in  this  mere 
succession  of  display  and  distraction,  this  indolent  and  self- 
indulgent  pursuit  of  the  appetites  and  senses.  She  was 
afraid  of  seeming  “ odd  ” in  her  world ; for  he  told  her  that  peo- 
ple were  so  soon  considered  so,  and  always  detested  as  a conse- 
quence. She  did  her  best  to  endeavor  to  seem  amused  at  this 
perpetual  carnival,  but  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  feel  so. 
Her  early  education  had  left  too  indelible  a stamp  of  simplic- 
ity and  gravity  upon  her  for  her  to  easily  adopt  the  tone  of 


GUILDEROY.  13f 

those  around  her.  Sometimes  Guilderoy,  saw  or  thought  he 
saw,  a look  of  disdain  for  his  pursuits  and  pastimes  come 
upon  her  features,  and  it  angered  him  extremely.  He  thought 
it  a censure  of  himself. 

“ My  sister’s  frown  was  quite  enough  in  the  family,”  he 
said  once,  petulantly. 

u Did  I frown  ? ” said  Gladys,  very  sorrowfully.  u I did 
not  know  it.  Indeed  I am  very  sorry.” 

u You  frown  very  often,”  he  said,  angrily.  “ Perhaps  you 
do  not  know  it.  It  is  an  ugly  habit,  and  makes  people  think 
you  a prude.” 

“ I see  a great  deal  in  society  that  I do  not  like,”  she  said, 
a little  coldly. 

“ And  pray,  my  dear,  did  it  never  occur  to  you  that  neither 
age  nor  experience  have  as  yet  qualified  you  to  act  as  duenna 
to  a naughty  world  ? ” 

She  colored  at  the  ridicule  of  his  accent. 

“ About  some  things  I am  sure  I am  right,”  she  said  in  a 
low  tone,  which  sounded  to  him  like  obstinacy.  “One  wants 
no  duenna  to  know  that  there  are  some  things  which  are — 
which  offend  one — one  feels  them.” 

“ You  feel  them  because  your  heart  is  always  behind  your 
beehives  and  sweetbriar  at  Christslea,  and  you  think  every 
one  should  talk  like  your  father,  with  equal  parts  of  St. 
Augustine  and  Horace.  You  are  a country  mouse  at  heart, 
and  are  always  sighing  for  the  hayricks.  How  I do  wish 
you  were  not ! It  makes  the  women  detest  you  and  laugh  at 
you  ; and  it  does  not  suit  your  style  at  all.  You  look  a great 
lady,  not  a Phyllis  or  Amaryllis.” 

“ They  may  laugh  if  they  please,”  she  said,  with  the  look 
on  her  face  with  which  she  had  once  said  that  the  Cherriton 
lads  might  burn  the  hut  down  if  they  pleased. 

u But  that  is  just  what  they  must  not  do,”  said  Guilderoy, 
considerably  irritated.  u Nothing  offends  or  annoys  me 
more:  nothing  is  so  odious  as  the  ridicule  by  women  of  a 
woman.  She  never  recovers  it.  It  is  much  less  injurious  te 
her  to  be  calumniated  than  to  be  laughed  at.  The  greatest 
beauty  cannot  stand  it.” 

“ It  is  wholly  indifferent  to  me ! ” 

“ But  it  is  not  to  me,”  said  Guilderoy.  <(  he  ridicule  tue . 
It  kills  grace,  it  kills  charm,  it  kills  popularity.  It  would 
afflict  me  immeasurably  if  for  the  want  of  a little  flexibility 
you  were  considered  a precisian  in  the  world.  It  is  Hilda’s 


138 


GTTILDHTtOY. 


style,  I am  aware,  but  it  is  a most  uncomfortable  style,  most 
distressing  in  its  effect  upon  others,  and  not  at  all  the  style  of 
our  day.” 

“ TJne  societe  gangrenee  / ” Oh,  we  know  all  that  ; it 
has  been  said  admirably  by  Balzac,  and  more  or  less  since  by 
all  his  imitators,”  continued  Guilderoy,  impatiently.  66  It  is 
really  not  necessary,  my  love,  that  you  should  either  preach 
or  philosophize  about  it.  There  are  always  numbers  of  writ- 
ers and  wits  who  make  their  livelihood  by  repeating  all  that 
kind  of  thing  as  well  as  it  can  be  said  ; and  lam  myself  con- 
vinced that  no  amount  of  condemnation  will  ever  alter  mat- 
ters by  a hand’s  breadth — not  even  condemnation  so  weighty 
and  so  terrible  as  yours  ! ” 

She  colored,  mortified  by  the  words  and  by  their  tone. 
She  felt  that  in  his  eyes  she  was  always  the  same  country 
child  who  had  first  opened  the  little  wicket  for  him  under  the 
boughs  at  Christslea.  She  had  grown  a century  older  in  her 
own  feelings  ; she  was  greatly  changed  in  the  eyes  of  all 
others  ; but  in  his  sight  she  was  always  the  same  young  and 
unworldly  rustic,  who  had  known  no  society  beyond  that  of 
the  fisherfolk  on  the  shore  and  the  wild  creatures  of  the  moor- 
lands and  orchards. 

He  had  no  patience  to  discuss  her  opinions  ; he  could  not  see 
why  she  should  have  any.  This  disdainful  relegation  of  her 
to  an  utterly  inferior  place  in  intelligence,  in  its  strong 
contrast  with  the  reverential  sympathy  of  Aubrey,  gave  her  a 
passionate  sense  of  offence,  which  was  too  deep  to  be  easily 
expressed. 

“ He  thinks  me  a fool,”  she  felt  bitterly  ; and  she  knew 
that  she  was  not  one,  that  she  could  have  met  him  on  equal 
ground  if  he  had  deigned  to  so  encounter  her. 

She  was  silent. 

“ English  society,”  he  continued,  u has  undergone  the 
most  radical  revolution  in  its  tone  and  temper  as  well  as  in  its 
politics  ; it  has  put  seven-leagued  boots  on  in  the  ways  of  de- 
moralization as  well  as  democracy.  It  is  much  more  than 
leste , it  is  constantly  outrageous.  We  have  always  been  a 
very  profligate  nation,  though  we  have  professed  great  chas- 
tity ; and  in  this  generation  the  impudent  people  are  upper- 
most, and  they  have  moulded  a society  to  their  liking,  and 
every  one  who  is  not  of  it  is  nowhere.” 

“ Do  you  desire  that  I should  be  of  it  ? ” 

4t  Of  course  not,  my  dear  child.  Why  will  you  suggest  ab^ 


GUILD  EROY. 


139 


surdities  ? You  do  not  wait  to  hear  my  conclusion.  I was 
about  to  say  that  modern  society,  being  no  longer  high-bred, 
but  only  u smart,”  no  longer  distinguished,  but  only  rich, 
as  immoral  as  it  can  possibly  be,  and  having  even  ceased  to 
be  able  to  tell  a gentlewoman  from  a cabotine  when  it  sees 
one,  good  manners  are  altogether  thrown  away  upon  it,  and 
it  only  laughs  at  them.” 

u Its  laughter  must  be  less  degrading  than  its  praise  ? ” 

“ That  is  the  sort  of  thing  which  you  are  always  saying 
and  for  which  they  detest  you.  I am  not  estimating  its 
praise.  I am  wholly  indifferent  to  it.  But  I assure  you  that 
your  scornful  dignity  and  your  delicate  susceptibilities  are 
as  out  of  place  in  it  as  the  silver  ewer  that  the  royal 
fugitives  carried  with  them  on  the  road  to  Varennes.” 

“ Silver  vessels  seemed  natural  to  them,  I suppose.” 

“ Yes  ; and  so  the  silver  of  seriousness  and  high-breeding 
are  natural  to  you.  But  it  is  the  people  with  the  pitchforks 
and  the  false  assignats  that  are  now  blocking  the  roads  of 
society  everywhere,  and  though  you  cannot  help  being  royal, 
you  may  as  well  smile  when  you  can.” 

He  could  not  say  to  her  what  he  really  wished  to  convey, 
that  her  lack  of  animation  and  interest  made  women  laugh 
at  her,  and  laugh  at  him  because  they  believed  her  jealous  of 
his  attentions  to  them ; and  the  unconscious  disapprobation 
often  spoken  in  her  eyes  of  the  society  which  most  amused 
him  was  a constant  theme  of  raillerv  against  him  with  his 
female  friends. 

Material  sorrows  everyone  can  understand,  though  even 
these  everyone  does  not  stay  to  pity ; but  the  sorrows  of  the 
spirit,  when  combined  with  material  prosperity,  hardly  any- 
one has  patience  to  contemplate.  Cold,  hunger,  and  ill- 
liealtli,  all  these  wants  and  pains  physical,  are  easily  com- 
prehended, even  by  the  unsympathetic ; but  the  cold  of  the 
soul  which  is  solitary,  the  hunger  of  the  heart  which  vaguely 
misses  and  vaguely  desires  what  it  has  never  yet  found,  the 
ill-health  of  the, spirit  which  is  weary  and  yet  restless,  which 
sits  at  the  banquets  of  the  world  without  appetite  and  turns 
away  from  all  which  delights  others,  cloyed  and  yet  empty, 
this  no  one  will  ever  pity  ; the  multitude  only  calls  it  in  a 
man  cynicism,  and  in  a woman  ennui . And  yet  how  far  it  is 
from  being  either  one  or  the  other ! 

She  was  too  young  to  know  the  charm  of  toleration,  the 
wisdom  of  indifference,  the  force  of  an  influence  which  is 


140 


GUILDEROT . 


never  urged,  but  merely  suggested.  Her  character  had  been 
constructed  by  her  father’s  teachings  on  a few  broad  lines  ; 
the  lines  on  which  were  built  the  characters  of  a simpler, 
graver,  calmer  day  than  ours,  when  women  stayed  at  home, 
whether  in  palace  or  in  cabin.  It  had  strength,  truth,  can- 
dor, honor,  purity  ; but,  like  many  such  characters,  it  lacked 
pliancy,  sympathy,  and  comprehensiveness.  It  adhered  to 
its  own  few  firm  rules,  and  did  not  allow  for,  because  it  did 
not  in  any  measure  perceive,  the  caprices,  the  necessities,  and 
the  weaknesses  of  others. 

There  is  a fatal  law  which  philosophers  might  possibly 
trace  out  to  some  law  of  compensation,  which  usually  makes 
the  women  of  perfect  purity  and  candor  incapable  of  that 
charm  of  quickly  comprehending  and  infinitely  pardoning 
which  makes  a woman  most  sweet  and  most  beloved. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Aubrey’s  sister,  the  Duchess  of  Longleat,  was  one  of  those 
who  make  le  pluie  et  le  beau  temps  in  the  great  world  for 
those  she  disapproved  or  favored.  She  had  conceived  at  first 
a violent  dislike  to  Gladys  because  “ no  one  knew  her  ” — 
darkest  of  all  social  crimes ! But  Aubrey  took  infinite  pains 
to  reconcile  her,  and  to  secure  her  kindness  and  support  to 
Guilderoy’s  wife. 

“Why  should  you  care  whether  she  is  admired  or  de- 
tested ? ” his  sister  asked  him  once ; and  he  replied  : — 

“ I care  because  I pity  her  infinitely ; she  is  married  to  a 
man  who  will  never  pardon  her  if  she  fails  to  succeed  in  his 
world,  and  who  yet  will  never  take  the  trouble  to  point  out 
to  her  the  way  to  succeed.” 

“ It  is  a dangerous  occupation  to  do  it  for  him,”  said  his 
sister.  “ She  is  extremely  handsome.” 

“ Not  dangerous  to  me,”  said  Aubrey,  with  a rather  sad 
smile.  “ You  know  I am  bien  trempe . 

“ To  Evelyn  to  have  his  wife  a mere  country  chatelaine  99 
he  continued,  “ a woman  who  makes  blunders  and  is  quoted 
in  ridicule  because  she  sends  in  the  wrong  people  together, 
would  be  infinitely  more  intolerable  than  to  have  her  a 


GTJILDEBOY. 


141 


Medea  or  a Lady  Macbeth.  She  knows  nothing  of  social 
matters.  How  should  she  ? She  is  a child,  and  she  has 
always  lived  in  a cottage  with  a recluse.  But  some  one 
must  teach  them  to  her.  Hilda  Sunbury  ought,  but  she 
will  not;  virtuous  woman  though  she  is,  she  would  be 
delighted  at  everything  which  would  separate  her  brother 
from  his  wife.  Evelyn  will  not  because  he  is  too  indolent, 
and  he  has  moreover  no  patience  with  people  to  whom  these 
things  are  not  second  nature.  There  only  remain  you  and  I. 
We  must  undertake  her  training  in  these  things.’* 

u I really  do  not  see  why/*  said  the  Duchess.  “ Evelyn 
is  an  unconscionable  egotist.  He  has  always  been  so;  he 
always  will  be.  We  are  not  bound  to  remedy  the  omissions 
of  his  selfishness.** 

But  she  adored  her  brother,  and  to  please  him  threw  over 
the  new  comer  the  mighty  segis  of  her  approbation  and  pro- 
tection. The  world  always  followed  Her  Grace  of  Longleat 
like  sheep. 

“ The  Duchess  of  Longleat  thinks  her  perfect/*  was  a 
phrase  with  which  those  who  wished  ill  to  Gladys  were  easily 
silenced.  Against  the  opinion  of  that  greatest  of  great 
ladies  there  was  no  appeal. 

Guilderoy  meanwhile  went  on  his  own  way,  not  taking 
any  notice  of  the  means  by  which  his  wife’s  social  success 
was  secured.  He  was  often  absent  in  Paris,  in  Italy,  at 
German  baths  or  in  Austrian  country  houses,  and  his  wife 
was  quickly  becoming  not  of  much  more  serious  import  to 
him  than  the  chests  of  old  Stuart  and  Tudor  plate  locked  up 
at  Ladysrood.  He  prized  the  plate  certainly,  and  would  have 
been  indignant  and  humiliated  if  thieves  had  broken  in  and 
stolen  it.  But  it  was  scarcely  ever  in  his  thoughts.  He 
trusted  its  safe  keeping  to  that  good  fortune  which  had 
attended  him  from  his  birth. 

He  had  by  degrees  glided  back  into  his  old  habits,  his  old 
amusements,  his  old  attentions  to  women,  and  he  never 
looked  intently  or  fondly  enough  at  her  to  become  aware  of 
a certain  look  which  was  in  her  eyes  when  they  followed  him 
which  might  have  told  him  that  she  was  neither  a child  nor 
a saint,  neither  impassive  nor  forgiving.  He  only  thought 
her  of  a cold  temperament,  and  was  glad. 

She  vaguely  yet  painfully  felt  that  she  had  been  deceived 
by  the  brave  and  tender  sentiments  which  he  had  expressed 
so  constantly  before  marriage  with  her*  and  which  were  now 


142 


aUILDEROT. 


never  heard  of  from  him.  He  seemed  utterly  to  have  for- 
gotten all  the  poetic  and  romantic  views  with  which  he  had 
captivated  her  childish  imagination  ; and  she  thought  that 
they  had  been  entirely  assumed  to  attract  her.  She  did  him 
wrong.  He  had  been  quite  sincere  in  his  moods  of  serious 
and  ardent  fancy  when  he  had  been  first  under  the  charm  of 
Christslea.  He  had  affected  nothing ; he  had  been  actually, 
for  the  time  being,  the  imaginative  and  serious  lqver  which 
he  had  seemed  to  be.  He  was  a man  wholly  surrendered  to 
the  influence  of  the  moment,  and  taking  all  his  color  from  it. 

Very  soon  after  his  union  with  her,  the  habitual  influences 
of  his  life  had  begun  to  reassume  their  force  over  him;  the 
poetry  and  earnestness  which  had  never  been  more  than  mo- 
mentary with  him  had  ceded  place  in  turn  to  the  instincts 
and  modes  of  thought  more  common  to  him.  He  had  never 
been  insincere,  although  he  appeared  so  to  her.  He  had  been 
merely  following  the  whims  and  emotions  of  a season ; and 
when  she  ceased  to  have  any  power  over  him,  the  kind  of 
feelings  which  she  had  temporarily  aroused  faded  with  the 
fading  of  her  charm.  His  sister  had  been  wholly  correct  in 
saying  that  his  fancy  for  his  wife  had  only  been  in  feeling 
an  amourette  like  many  another,  and  it  had  no  more  endur- 
ing weight  with  him.  But  in  all  this  he  was  not  false, 
although  be  seemed  to  her  to  be  so.  He  followed  his  own 
varying  moods,  and  if  she  became  of  but  slight  account  in  his 
existence,  it  was  because  lie  honestly  forgot  that  she  ought  to 
be  of  any. 

But  all  these  complications  and  vacillations  of  character 
were  too  intricate  for  her  to  follow,  and  she  only  felt  a con- 
tinually growing  sense  that  she  had  been  intentionally  de- 
ceived by  him  when  he  had  wooed  her  with  the  graceful  and 
chivalrous  kind  of  homage  which  had  won  her  young  heart 
under  the  red  autumn  leaves  of  the  Christslea  orchards.  The 
world  forever  claimed  him;  and  he  went  to  his  claims  will- 
ingly. 

He  could  not  live  without  stimulant,  distraction,  move- 
ment, excitement;  they  were  all  drugs  indispensable  to  his 
existence;  and  m the  fumes  of  tlTem  such  an  idyl  as  had 
smiled  at  him  for  a moment  amongst  the  autumn  flowers  of 
Christslea  had  no  chance  to  retain  its  spell.  He  had  been 
quite  sincere  in  it ; as  sincere  as  when  lie  had  assured  her 
father  that  he  sighed  for  the  nude  and  childlike  soul  of  a 
virgin  love.  He  had  not  conscientiously  plsfyed  a part} 


QUILbUROY. 


143 


because  he  had  believed  that  the  part  was  his  own  whilst  he 
had  played  it.  But  this  was  too  subtle  for  her  comprehen- 
sion ; she  only  saw  that  the  man  who  had  wooed  her  did  not 
exist  in  the  man  who  had  wedded  her. 

In  him  as  in  many  another  man  of  intelligence  and  imagi- 
nation, the  mingled  fever  and  conventionality  of  modern  life 
had  made  both  imagination  and  intelligence  mere  occasional 
factors  in  his  thoughts  and  character ; frittered  away  and 
hurried  away  by  the  ever-pressing  crowd  of  baser  instincts 
and  more  material  interests  and  pleasures. 

In  all  the  wishes  and  fancies  for  a more  poetic  existence, 
and  for  more  innocent  affections,  which  he  had  expressed  to 
her,  and  to  her  father,  in  the  weeks  preceding  his  marriage, 
he  had  been  his  own  dupe,  and  had  deluded  himself  with  a 
mirage  of  his  own  creating.  The  milage  had  faded:  but  the 
obligations  he  had  taken  on  himself  when  under  the  charm 
of  it,  remained  behind  it. 

How  and  then,  indeed,  he  felt  with  a pang  that  he  did  not 
keep  his  promise  to  John  Vernon  in  either  the  spirit  or  the 
letter.  “ Et  puer  est  et  nudus  Amor,”  he  had  said  when  sit- 
ting under  the  porch  at  Christslea ; but  the  divine  nudity  of 
the  innocent  soul  had  soon  seemed  to  him  of  little  charm,  and 
he  had  wished  it  draped  and  veiled  with  those  arts  which 
heighten  what  they  hide.  He  knew,  in  his  own  conscious- 
ness, that  every  word  which  Vernon  had  predicted  had  been 
verified.  He  had  sought  those  who  threw  the  sulphur  on  the 
fading  or  on  the  rising  flame.  Often  he  sought  them  in 
spheres  far  removed  from  the  knowledge  or  observation  of  his 
wife.  But  at  times  the  women  who  beguiled  him  were  amidst 
those  of  her  own  world. 

There  was  a new  star  in  London  society  in  the  third  year  of 
his  marriage.  It  was  a lady  familiarly  called  by  all  her  male 
friends  Olive  Shiffton,  a very  pretty  woman,  with  the  un- 
dulating form  and  the  voluptuous  grace  of  an  odalisque,  com- 
bined with  an  impudence  which  was  almost  heroic,  and  a 
success  only  possible  in  the  senility  and  sensuality  of  society 
at  the  close  of  this  century.  Mrs.  Shiffton  had  come  no  one 
very  well  knew  whence.  Her  husband  had  a large  Australian 
fortune,  and  she  herself  was  vaguely  said  to  be  “ a lawyer’s 
daughter,”  which,  as  Lady  Sunbury  observed,  was  satisfactory, 
no  doubt,  hut  vague,  comprising  as  it  did  everything  what- 
ever from  the  Lord  Chancellor  down  to  the  lowest  attorney  of 
Smoke  Street.  Be  she  what  she  would  she  was  lovely  to  look 


144 


GUILDEMOY. 


at,  had  caught  the  eye  and  amused  the  ennui  of  an  exalted 
personage,  and  had,  by  audacity,  cringing,  and  cleverness, 
placed  herself  in  the  highest  rank  of  society.  Some  great 
ladies  still  did  not  know  her,  indeed,  but  they  were  the  ex- 
ception. Mrs.  Percy  Shiffton  was  really  seen  “ everywhere.” 
She  laid  siege  to  Guilderoy,  and  succeeded  in  beguiling  him. 
She  amused  him  infinitely,  quite  as  much  by  what  she  was 
not  as  by  what  she  was.  Her  constant  endeavor  to  persuade  her- 
self and  everybody  that  she  had  been  born  in  the  purples  was 
a perpetual  comedy  to  him ; whilst  the  great  rarity  of  her 
peculiar  loveliness,  which  was  that  of  a Creole  rather  than  of 
an  Englishwoman,  had  a potent  seduction  for  his  senses. 

“ Do  not  even  think  of  that  odious  woman ; do  not  even 
know  her,”  said  the  Duchess  of  Longleat  to  Gladys ; but 
Gladys  could  not  but  see  the  power  possessed  and  exercised 
by  this  person  whom  she  met  at  every  turn  and  in  every  house 
except  at  that  of  Her  Grace  of  Longleat,  at  Balfrons,  and  at  111- 
ington.  The  very  exclusion  of  the  lady  from  the  houses  of 
his  relatives  served  to  suggest  to  her  the  terms  of  intimacy  ex- 
isting between  Guilderoy  and  Olive  Shiffton. 

"It  is  only  his  way ; he  is  always  flirting  like  that ; it 
means  nothing,”  whispered  the  Duchess  to  her  once  at  a great 
ball  at  Grosvenor  House,  where  Guilderoy,  half  amused,  half 
bored,  was  sitting  out  four  dances  under  the  shadow  of  tropi- 
cal plants  by  the  side  of  Olive  Shiffton. 

“ Why  do  you  not  flirt  too,  you  goose  ? That  would  bring 
him  to  his  senses,”  thought  the  Duchess.  But  she  had  too 
much  of  the  good  nature  of  the  Balfrons’  blood  to  make  the 
suggestion,  and  she  had  great  respect  for  the  self-control  with 
which  a woman  so  young  as  Gladys  succeeded  in  restraining 
all  evidence  of  suspicion  or  indignation. 

“ It  is  not  Olive  Shiffton  that  she  need  care  about,”  said 
Lady  Sunbury  to  her.  “He  will  play  with  her  a season — 
half  a season — nothing  more.  There  are  greater  dangers  than 
that,  if  she  only  could  understand  them,” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? ” asked  the  Duchess. 

“ I mean  that  all  these  caprices  do  not  really  matter.  What 
does  matter  is  the  only  woman  he  has  ever  really  loved,  or,  to 
my  belief,  will  ever  really  love.” 

“Beatrice  Soria?”  asked  the  Duchess.  “But  I thought 
that  was  all  broken  off.” 

“ My  dear  Ermyntrude,”  replied  Lady  Sunbury,  “ there  are 
plants  which  only  grow  the  stronger  for  being  broken  off; 


GTTILbEKOT.  <145 

any  gardener  will  tell  you  that.  He  was  in  Italy  this  spring, 
and  you  know  Soria  is  dead.” 

“ Certainly  he  was  in  Italy,  and  certainly  Soria  is  dead  j 
but  it  does  not  follow ” 

“ How  can  you  say  so  ? Oh  ! if  there  were  nothing  more 
truly  dangerous  than  the  Olive  Shifftons  of  society  we  should 
not  all  suffer  as  we  do.” 

“■"Well,  do  not  suggest  it  to  Gladys.  Here,  if  anywhere, 
ignorance  is  bliss.” 

“ I am  not  a mischief-maker,”  replied  Lady  Sunbury  with 
hauteur  and  dignity. 

“ I am  afraid  you  are,  sometimes,”  thought  Ermyntrude 
Longleat ; and  she  communicated  her  apprehensions  to  her 
brother. 

“ I do  not  think  there  is  any  danger  from  the  Duchess 
Soria,”  he  answered.  “She  is  a very  proud  woman.  Proud 
women  cannot  be  discarded  one  day  and  freshly  won  the 
next.” 

“ Oh,  my  dear,  if  she  be  still  in  love  with  him  ! ” said  his 
sister,  who  did  not  see  much  security  in  this  barrier. 

Meantime  Gladys  was  only  very  dimly  aware  of  the  causes 
for  jealously  which  were  given  her.  She  did  not  understand 
enough  of  the  world  or  of  the  persons  in  it  to  be  conscious  of 
how  much  she  might  have  to  resent. 

She  felt  that  her  husband  cared  but  little  about  her  ; she 
was  sensible  that  his  life  contained  numerous  interests, 
friendships,  and  amusements  in  which  she  had  no  part,  and 
of  which  she  had  scarcely  any  knowledge  ; but  the  complete 
innocence  of  her  childhood  hung  too  long  about  her  like  a 
golden  mist  not  to  be  as  yet  a veil  which  blinded  her  to 
much.  She  had  no  comprehension  of  men’s  natures.  Her 
father  had  tried  to  suggest  their  faults  and  follies  to  her,  but 
her  mind  had  not  embraced  the  extent  of  his  meaning. 
Only  very  slowly,  little  by  little,  as  months  succeeded 
months,  did  she  begin  to  comprehend  the  vast  difference 
between  what  was,  and  what  seemed  to  be,  in  the  world  in 
which  she  found  herself,  and  realized  the  vast  extent  to 
which  unacknowledged  affections  and  influences  have  in  it  a 
greater  potency  than  those  which  are  visible  and  avowed. 

In  her  ignorance  she  had  fancied  that  because  she  was  his 
wife,  Guilderoy  would  forever  prefer  her  to  all  others ; she 
learned  that  it  was  rather  almost  all  others  whom  he  pre- 
ferred to  herself.  He  was,  indeed,  never  unkind  to  her,  or 


146 


GUILDEHOY. 


otherwise  than  courteous.  The  greatest  want  of  kindness 
which  he  ever  showed  was  in  a lack  of  attention  to  what  she 
said,  a restrained  hut  yet  perceptible  weariness  whenever  she 
was  alone  with  him.  He  was  liberal  even  to  extravagance 
In  all  he  gave  her,  he  was  scrupulously  punctilious  in  polite- 
ness to  her  before  his  household  or  his  friends,  and  he  was 
seldom  ruffled  to  the  utterance  of  even  an  impatient  sentence 
to  her  ear.  But,  all  the  same,  she  felt  that  she  was  very 
little,  perhaps  nothing,  to  him ; and  when  she  recalled  the 
adoration  of  the  first  few  weeks  of  their  union  she  felt  a cold 
like  ice  close  in  about  her  heart,  for  she  knew  all  that  she 
missed,  all  that  she  had  lost. 

No  doubt  there  were  many  women  of  her  age  who  would 
have  been  made  quite  sufficiently  happy  by  the  material 
powers  and  pleasures  which  he  had  given  her.  But  she  was 
not.  Her  pride  was  incessantly  wounded  and  her  affections 
were  incessantly  starved ; and  she  was  sore  of  heart  amidst 
the  profusion,  the  dazzling  changes,  the  movement  and  the 
constant  crowds,  of  her  new  existence. 

She  had  not  very  much  time  left  to  her  to  think  : but  her 
thoughts  were  often  bitter  and  troubled  when  her  lips  were 
speaking  those  conventional  phrases  in  which  she  had  learned 
to  take  refuge.  The  preoccupation  and  depression  which 
were  so  often  on  her  took  from  the  charm  of  her  personal 
loveliness,  because  they  robbed  it  of  light  and  animation. 
The  glad  spontaneous  smile  with  which  she  had  welcomed 
the  name  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  or  recognized  the  bay  of 
Christslea  in  David  Cox’s  drawing,  was  never  seen  upon  her 
features  now. 

“ You  have  really  marvellously  acquired  all  the  morgue  of 
an  English  great  lady,”  he  said  to  her  once.  “ I never 
imagined  you  would  be  able  to  assume  so  easily  the  impassive- 
ness  and  unpleasantness  which  my  sister  and  many  like  her 
of  the  old  school  think  so  necessary  to  the  high  breeding  of 
a woman  of  fashion  ! ” 

He  did  not  perceive  that  what  were  dead  in  her  were  the 
vivacity,  the  insouciance , and  the  abandonment  of  youth. 

“ That  is  cruelly  unkind ; I do  all  that  I can  to  be  what- 
ever you  wish,”  she  answered  him  with  tears  brimming  iu 
her  eyes. 

He  rose,  restless  and  angry,  and  unreasonable. 

“ For  Heaven’s  sake,  my  dear,  do  not  give  way  to  hysteria 
like  that,”  he  said,  with  much  unconscious  exaggeration.  a X 


GUILDEROT. 


147 


thought  you  too  proud  and  high-spirited  to  burst  out  crying 
at  every  word  which  does  not  flatter  you.” 

“ I do  not  want  flattery,”  she  said  indignantly  j “ I want 
only  justice.” 

“ Anything  which  is  not  flattery  seems  injustice  to  a wo- 
man,” he  said  irritably.  “ One  can  never  hint  a fault  to 
them  but  what  they  think  we  are  brutal  and  ungenerous. 
All  that  I ask  of  you  is  to  enjoy  your  life — at  least  to  look 
as  if  you  did.  It  is  no  immense  demand  assuredly.  You 
have  everything  which  attracts  and  pleases  other  women, 
and  yet  nothing  seems  to  attract  or  please  you.  I did  not 
make  the  world  and  I cannot  alter  it.  You  must  learn  to 
take  it  as  it  is.  We  all  have  to  do  so,  or  become  intolerable 
to  ourselves  and  others.” 

“ There  is  only  one  thing  I want,”  she  said  in  a voice  so 
Jow  that  he  scarcely  heard  it, 

“ What  is  that  ? ” he  said  with  some  impatience.  She 
looked  at  him  and  could  not  bring  herself  to  answer. 

“Nothing  you  can  give  me,”  she  said  with  a return  of 
that  coldness  which  he  had  once  admired  and  detested  in 
her. 

“ What  some  one  else  can  give,  then  ? ” he  asked  with  a 
sudden  surprise  and  displeasure. 

“ No.” 

“Cannot  you  speak,  my  dear,  without  enigmas  or  mono- 
syllables ? If  it  be  anything  in  reason  you  shall  have  it.” 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully.  She  longed  to  say  to  him  all 
that  she  felt,  to  open  her  heart  to  him  in  all  its  longing  and 
pain,  but  the  sensitiveness  and  pride  of  her  temper  kept  the 
words  of  confession  and  entreaty  from  her  lips.  She  was 
afraid  of  his  contemptuous  and  slighting  reception  of  her  ex- 
pressions of  affection,  and  she  had  the  overwhelming  con- 
sciousness that  she  was  too  indifferent  to  him  for  him  ever 
to  take  the  trouble  to  penetrate  or  analyze  her  feelings  for 
him. 

“ I wish  I could  please  you,”  she  said,  instead  of  the  words 
that  had  been  on  her  lips ; and  these  seemed  to  him  stiff  and 
commonplace  and  left  him  cold. 

“You  please  me  in  much,”  he  said.  “I  am  very  proud  of 
you  in  much.  But  I would  willingly  see  you  gayer  of  tem- 
per and  more  easily  interested.  It  is  so  much,  my  dear,  for 
a woman  to  be  amiable  ! And  nothing  is  so  unamiabie  as 
the  tendency  you  display  to  brood  over  your  own  wrongs 


148 


GUILDEROT . 


and  poser  to  yourself  as  superior  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 
Pray  do  not  let  this  inclination  to  tearful  scenes  grow  upon 
you.  Nothing  is  so  distressing  to  any  man  5 and  I more, 
even  than  most  men,  abhor  everything  approaching  to  a 
scene.  Remember  that,  dear,  and  try  to  be  happy.  If  1 
have  not  made  you  so  it  is  my  misfortune,  not  my  fault.” 

He  believed  what  he  said. 

“ It  will  be  terrible,”  he  thought  when  he  was  alone,  u if 
she  become  la  femme  incomprise.  There  is  nothing  on  earth 
so  distressing,  so  uncon sollable,  so  absolutely  unreasonable 
upon  earth.  At  present  she  is  young,  and  really  lovely,  and 
it  does  not  matter  much  ; but  years  hence,  it  will  be  unbear- 
able, and  how  is  one  to  check  it  ? It  is  always  a malady 
which  grows.  Good  Heavens  ! why  were  women  made  like 
that — always  analyzing  your  feelings  and  their  own,  always 
teasing  you  to  tell  them  that  what  is  dying  is  not  dead,  al- 
ways pulling  up  love  by  its  roots  if  they  think  its  blossom 
looks  sickly,  always  killing  by  over-culture  the  very  thing 
they  most  wish  should  live  eternally  ? I know  she  is  good. 
I think  her  lovely.  I was  very  fond  of  her  for  a while ; I 
am  not  now ; I cannot  help  that.  But  it  is  possible  that  I 
might  be  so  again  if  she  did  not  weary  me.  Cannot  she  un- 
derstand that  ? No  ; they  never  understand  it.  They  can 
never  comprehend  that  one’s  soul  revolves  like  the  earth,  and 
has  its  summer  and  winter  solstice.  With  them  it  must  be 
all  summer  at  canicular  heat,  and  if  they  cannot  have  the 
sunshine  of  summer,  they  will  at  least  have  its  storms.” 

And  he  went  out  of  his  house  with  a sense  of  extreme  irri- 
tation. 

“ I have  always  been  kind  to  her,”  he  would  have  said,  if 
anybody  had  reproached  him ; and  he  was  indeed  wholly  una- 
ware that  anything  of  kindness  was  lacking  in  him.  He  had 
had  a nervous  dread  of  her  displaying  any  attachment  to 
him  in  the  world,  and  he  was  relieved  to  find  that  she  was  so 
undemonstrative  and  so  reasonable.  She  suffered  with  all 
the  terrible  anxiety  of  instinctive  jealousy  whenever  she  saw 
his  attentions  to  other  women,  and  when  she  realized  how 
easy  it  was  for  them  to  enchain  and  charm  him,  and  how  im* 
possible  for  her.  But  her  fears  took  no  definite  shape  ; even 
her  sense  of  pain  came  rather  from  the  idea  of  her  own  in 
sufficiency  to  him  than  of  his  inconstancy  to  her. 


GU1LDER0Y. 


149 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

One  day  Gladys,  returning  unexpectedly  from  a drive  and 
going  upstairs  to  her  own  rooms  without  summoning  any  ser- 
vant, came  suddenly  on  her  head  waiting  woman,  who  was 
standing  before  her  opened  jewel-safe.  It  was  an  iron  safe 
enclosed  in  an  inlaid  lac  box  of  great  beauty,  and  standing  on 
a metal  tripod,  of  which  the  feet  were  fastened  to  the  floor  by 
screws.  The  key  was  kept  by  herself  on  her  watch-chain. 

The  woman  did  not  hear  her  approach,  and  was  standing 
in  hesitation  before  the  first  jewel-tray ; her  hesitation  ended 
in  selecting  rapidly  two  or  three  rings,  which  she  slipped 
into  the  bosom  of  her  dress.  She  was  tempted,  but  afraid,  to 
take  the  larger  objects.  She  was  a Scotchwoman,  a widow, 
and  very  religious,  high  in  esteem  with,  and  long  trusted  by, 
great  families.  She  had  been  in  the  service  of  Gladys  since 
her  marriage,  when  she  had  been  hired  for  her  by  Lady 
Sunbury. 

Her  mistress  now  went  up  to  her  without  a sound  and  took 
the  key  out  of  her  hand. 

“Put  back  those  rings  you  have  stolen,”  she  said  in  a calm 
voice.  The  woman  turned  red  and  white,  trembled,  stam- 
mered, and  protested. 

“Denial  is  of  no  use,”  said  Gladys.  “You  have  opened 
the  safe  with  a false  key,  for  I have  its  own  key  on  my  chain 
as  you  know.  Put  back  the  rings.  You  took  three.” 

The  maid,  trembling  in  every  limb,  brought  them  from 
their  hiding-place  and  restored  them  to  their  cases. 

“You  will  not  ruin  me,  my  lady?”  she  said  piteously. 
“My  character  is  all  that  I have  in  the  world  to  live  by  1 ” 

“Have  you  taken  anything  before  ? ” 

“Hot  much,”  she  muttered.  “I  never  touched  the  safe 
before,  so  help  me  God ! But  you  are  very  careless  with 
your  money,  my  lady,  and  it  is  a cruel  temptation  to  put  in 
the  sight  of  poor  folks.” 

Gladys  looked  at  her  in  disgust. 

“ And  I gave  you  fifty  pounds  last  month  to  send  your 
children  to  the  sea  ! ” she  said  slowly,  “And  I h&Ye  trusted 


CUILTJEROY. 


150 

you.  I have  trusted  you  entirely  ever  since  I took  you  into 
my  service.  Are  you  not  ashamed  to  have  repaid  me  thus  ? ” 

“ You  trust  everybody,  my  lady/5  said  the  woman  with  ill- 
concealed  scorn.  u And  there  are  those  higher  than  I,  and 
nearer  to  you  than  I,  as  repays  you  worse.” 

The  face  of  Gladys  flushed  hotly. 

“ Leave  me  thi » moment/'  she  said  ; 66  I will  not  arrest  you, 
for  the  sake  of  your  children.  Perhaps  I do  wrong  to  let  a 
thief  go  unmarked  into  the  world.  But  I hope  that  you  will 
remember  the  danger  you  have  escaped,  and  be  honest  to 
your  employers  in  the  future.” 

The  woman  made  her  a low  curtsey,  murmured  a hypocrit- 
ical blessing  on  her,  and  tried  to  kiss  her  hand.  But  Gladys 
motioned  her  away. 

u Leave  the  house  in  ten  minutes,  or  I will  not  answer  for 
my  longer  clemency.” 

The  maid  curtseyed  a second  time,  and  withdrew  in 
silence. 

“ You  young  fool ! ” she  thought.  u You  have  never  looked 
if  your  other  jewels  are  safe,  and  you  little  guess  the  nest- 
egg  I have  laid  up  from  your  carelessness  every  month  since 
I have  been  in  your  service.  Trusted  me  ! Ay,  you  trust 
everybody,  you  born  simpleton  ; and  you  go  through  the  muck 
of  the  world  as  if  it  were  a meadow  of  daises ! ” 

When  she  told  Guilderoy  of  the  incident  he  was  amused. 

“ I am  glad  it  is  that  sanctimonious  Presbyterian,  whom 
Hilda  thought  such  a pearl,”  he  answered.  “ My  dear  child, 
you  may  be  quite  sure  that  you  are  robbed  right  and  left  by 
all  your  people.  We  always  are.  The  woes  of  employers 
should  be  sung  by  another  Tom  Hood.  The  whole  world  is 
just  now  on  its  knees  in  adoration  before  the  poorer  classes ; 
all  the  cardinal  virtues  are  taken  for  granted  in  them,  and  it 
is  only  property  of  any  kind  which  is  the  sinner.  But  I 
fancy,  if  the  truth  were  known,  the  scales  are  more  evenly 
weighted  than  that,  and  that  the  continuous  robbery  to  which 
property  is  subjected  by  those  possessors  of  all  the  virtues 
who  yawn  in  our  halls  and  gorge  themselves  on  our  food, 
would  pretty  well  make  the  balance  even  between  us.  Do 
not  think  more  about  it.  Take  a Frenchwoman  ; you  will 
not  find  her  reading  the  Bible  when  you  come  home  from  a 
ball,  but  she  will  be  much  more  agreeable  to  you,  and  indefi* 
nitely  more  honest.” 

But  to  Gladys  the  matter  was  not  so  light. 


GUILLEBOY. 


151 


To  a nature  which  is  very  faithful,  honest,  and  truthful, 
any  deception  seems  the  most  appalling  of  crimes,  and  all 
ingratitude  seems  to  enter  the  very  flesh  like.a  thorn. 

Soon  after  the  discovery  of  the  theft  a newspaper  was  sent 
to  her  with  a broad  mark  played  against  one  of  its  para- 
graphs. She  supposed  it  referred  to  some  critique  or  essay 
of  her  father’s ; his  scholarly  work  fpr  the  press  was  always 
full  of  interest  to  her  even  when  she  did  not  understand  the 
subject  of  it.  But  at  the  first  line  she  now  read  a burning 
color  mounted  over  her  face  and  throat ; she  saw  that  the 
paragraph  was  far  from  the  harmless  thing  she  thought,  and 
that  the  news-sheet  was  one  of  those  curses  of  modern  society 
which  live  on  supplying  it  with  anonymous  calumnies. 

The  marked  lines,  carefully  worded  to  escape  the  laws  of 
libel,  but  plain  as  the  alphabet  to  the  initiated,  spoke  jest- 
ingly of  the  tender  relations  existing  between  one  of  the 
largest  landowners  and  the  most  influential  peers  of  the 
southwestern  counties  and  an  olive  branch  brought  from  the 
antipodes  ; suggested  with  a sneer  that  the  olive  in  this  case 
would  not  mean  peace,  and  recommended  the  noble  Lothario  to 
read  the  marriage  service  over  once  a week.  In  its  studied 
innuendo  and  its  cowardly  malignity  the  insinuated  charge 
was  a masterpiece  of  its  own  venomous  and  iniquitous  order. 
More  subtle  than  Iago,  more  treacherous  than  Iscariot,  more 
devilish  than  Satan’s  self,  these  privileged  and  unpunished 
carrion-eaters  of  the  Press  bear  ruin  and  shame  and  indignity 
into  innocent  hearts  and  happy  homes,  themselves  safe  and 
secure  in  their  masked  crime,  because  the  very  loftiness  of 
the  place  of  those  whom  they  attack  forbids  them  to  descend 
into  the  mud  of  public  tribunals. 

She  read  it  with  horror,  and  flung  it  from  her  as  she  would 
have  cast  off  a viper. 

She  had  been  too  much  surrounded  by  the  hints  and  jests 
and  smiles  of  the  world  not  to  comprehend  to  what  and  to 
whom  the  slander  pointed.  But  it  was  the  first  time  that  the 
full  meaning  of  her  husband’s  attentions  to  women  grew  plain 
to  her. 

She  paced  to  and  fro  her  room  in  a paroxysm  of  disgust  and 
horror.  She  had  the  sensation  of  falling  headlong  down  from 
some  giddy  height.  All  the  force,  the  passion,  and  the  scorn 
whi^h  slept  under  her  outward  seriousness  and  serenity 
^aped  up  in  her.  She  seized  the  paper  from  the  corner 


152 


GUILDEROY. 


whither  she  had  flung  it,  and  tore  it  with  quivering  hands 
into  a thousand  pieces. 

At  that  moment  Aubrey  entered.  One  glance  at  her  face 
told  him  that  she  was  suffering  from  some  great  shock. 

“ My  dear  child,  what  can  possibly  have  happened  ? ” he 
asked  her  in  great  concern. 

It  was  four  o’clock ; he  was  going  down  to  the  House,  and 
had  come  in  for  a moment  on  his  way  to  bring  her  some  poli- 
tical news. 

She  told  him  in  a few  broken  and  ashamed  words  what  she 
had  read. 

“ It  is  not  true  ? It  cannot  be  true  ? ” she  asked  him, 
gazing  with  heartbreaking  entreaty  into  his  face. 

“ Of  course  it  is  not  true,  my  dear,”  he  answered,  avoiding 
her  gaze ; and  he  said  in  his  soul,  “ God  forgive  me  if  I tell 
her  what  is  a falsehood  ! — after  all  it  may  not  be  true.” 

“You  should  not  read  those  papers,”  he  added.  “The 
men  who  fatten  and  grow  rich  on  them  should  be  flogged  at 
the  cart’s  tail  from  Kensington  to  Shoreditch.  When  I 
think  that  they  drink  Burgundy  and  drive  in  broughams, 
while  we  send  other  men  who  snatch  a watch  or  purse  to  the, 
treadmill,  I feel  that  our  whole  hollow  system  of  society  and 
civilization  is  so  accursed  that  it  will  be  all  too  good  a fate 
for  us  if  our  whole  city  perishes  by  the  Clan-na-gael.” 

“But  is  it  true?  ” she  repeated,  in  all  a woman’s  seclusive 
narrowing  of  thought  of  her  own  sufferings  and  passions. 
“ You  know — you  know — he  does  admire  her.” 

“ I do  not  believe  he  admires  her.  He  plays  with  her. 
She  amuses  the  idle  moments  for  him  in  society,  that  is  all/* 
replied  Aubrey  with  some  embarrassment.  “ My  dearest 
child,  do  not  distress  yourself.  An  Olive  Shiffton  is  not 
worth  one  tear  of  yours.” 

“ But  I have  seen ” The  words  were  broken  in  their 

utterance  by  a sob  in  her  throat. 

Aubrey  sighed  heavily ; he  felt  all  the  restless  pain  of  a 
man  before  the  sorrow  of  a woman  to  whom  he  is  sincerely 
attached,  and  to  whom  it  is  utterly  out  of  his  power  to  con- 
sole. 

“ You  have  seen  him  flirting  with  her.  All  that  means 
nothing.  You  must  not  put  any  false  construction  on  it. 
She  is  a pretty  woman  and  audacious  ; but  she  has  neither 
the  good  breeding  nor  the  good  taste  which  coiud  ever  make 


GUILDEROY.  168 

her  really  charming  to  a man  who  has  both.  How  can  yon 
read  these  foolish  and  villainous  news-sheets  ? ” 

“ This  one  was  sent  to  me  marked.  I thought  it  was  some- 
thing about  some  essay  of  my  father’s.” 

“Very  likely  she  sent  it  herself/’  said  Aubrey,  But  there 
he  wronged  her ; it  was  the  discharged  maid  who  had  sent 
it.  “ She  is  an  adventuress,  nothing  better,  though  London 
society  has  taken  her  to  its  bosom.  My  dear  Gladys,  do  not 
descend  to  any  thought  of  her.  It  is  beneath  you ! ” 

“ That  is  easily  said ! ” she  murmured,  with  a faint  smile. 
“ And  difficult  to  feel.  That  I quite  understand.  But  not 
impossible,  I think,  is  it  ? Not  to  a proud  and  loyal  nature  ? 
Not  to  your  father’s  daughter  ? ” 

She  was  silent.  He  was  infinitely  grieved  for  her.  He 
felt  an  intensity  of  indignation  on  her  behalf  which  he  could 
not  express  lest  he  should  lend  weight  to  her  suspicions  and 
strength  to  her  anger.  His  affection  for  her  was  full  of  com- 
passion, and  he  felt  much  what  he  would  have  felt  if  he  had 
seen  a child  that  he  was  fond  of  struck  a blow  on  its  tender 
flesh. 

He  endeavored  to  make  her  apprehensions  and  her  wrongs 
seem  lighter  than  he  knew  that  they  had  every  right  to  be, 
because  he  was  convinced  that  any  evidence  of  her  indigna- 
tion given  to  his  cousin  would  only  cause  dissension  and  dis- 
union, and  lead  to  a scene  which  would  very  likely  end  in 
final  rupture. 

“ You  have  never  been  intimate  with  this  person  ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Never.  I bow  to  her,  and  he  told  me  to  send  her  a card 
for  our  great  ball ; that  was  all.” 

“ Then  you  will  have  no  trial  of  intercourse  with  her.  I 
am  sure  that  he  will  not  ask  you  to  invite  her  to  Ladysrood. 
He  knows  what  my  sister’s  and  his  sister’s  opinions  of  her 
are.  Next  season  you  may  be  sure  he  will  have  forgotten 
she  exists.  You  will  say  nothing  of  this  to  him  ? ” 

“ No  ? ” 

Her  accent  was  interrogative,  doubtful,  reproachful. 

“No,”  said  Aubrey.  “ No  ; certainly  not  if  you  are  wise, 
my  dear.  He  is  not  a man  to  be  patient  under  interrogation 
or  reproach.  If  you  appeared  to  believe  such  a story  you 
would  possibly  excite,  you  would  inevitably  irritate  him.  He 
will  see  and  know  nothing  of  it.  He  never  reads  newspapers 


154 


GUILDEROY. 


by  any  hazard,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  no  one  will  venture 
to  speak  of  this  to  him.” 

“ But  something  should  be  done.  Is  such  an  offence  as 
that  to  pass  ? Am  I to  be  humiliated  in  such  a way,  and 
not  one  of  all  my  friends  revenge  it  ? ” 

“Leave  the  matter  to  me,”  said  Aubrey.  “ You  are  a part 
of  my  family.  All  that  ought  to  be  done  shall  be  done.  But 
for  your  own  sake,  my  dear,  do  not  open  this  subject  with 
Guilderoy  ” 

She  was  silent  still. 

All  the  burning  pain  of  the  first  deadly  knowledge  of  her 
life  was  like  fire  in  her  veins.  To  her,  as  to  every  woman 
who  loves  and  is  wronged,  the  hardest  task  of  all  was  to  be 
meek  and  to  endure  with  patience. 

“ You  believe  that  I am  your  friend  ? ” said  Aubrey, 
gravely,  as  he  took  her  hands  in  his  own.  She  raised  her 
eyes  to  his,  heavy  with  tears. 

“ Oh!  yes,”  she  said,  with  deep  emotion.  “ You  are  the 
only  friend  I have,  except  my  father.” 

Aubrey  was  deeply  touched,  but  he  restrained  all  that  he 
felt. 

“Do  not  say  that,  dear;  you  have  many  who  care  for  you. 
My  sister  cares  very  warmly ; and  were  she  here  she  would  say 
the  same  to  you  as  I.  Do  not  be  the  first  to  break  your 
peace  with  Evelyn  ; if  you  were  to  sneak  of  this  bitterly — 
and  you  could  not  speak  of  it  calmly — it  would  be  a firebrand 
which  would  set  in  a blaze  the  whole  of  your  relations  with 
him,  present  and  future.  ” 

She  did  not  answer.  She  could  not  say  even  to  Aubrey 
what  she  felt  in  her  heart — that  she  was  absolutely  nothing 
to  her  husband,  and  that  the  violence  of  anger  from  him 
would  have  seemed  almost  more  easily  endurable  than  the 
sense  that  he  only  gave  her  outward  courtesies  and  that  sort 
of  indifferent  regard  which  ha  felt  for  her  because  she  was 
physically  beautiful  and  so  did  him  honor  in  the  world. 

“You  will  promise  me?”  said  Aubrey.  “I  have  not 
a moment  to  lose.  I must  be  at  the  House  in  ten  minutes* 
time ; tell  me  before  I go  that  you  will  follow  my  counsels. 
Believe  me  they  are  such  as  Vernon  himself  would  give  you 
were  he  here.” 

“ I will  try,”  she  answered 

“ That  is  not  enough.  You  must  say?  *1  will,*  You  will 
keep  your  promise  once  given  I know*” 


QUIZ  DEROT. 


155 


She  hesitated  a moment ; then  she  said  in  a lo'v  jmce  :-- 
“ You  can  judge  best,  I daresay.  I wll.\  not,®Pe£J 'f 
“That  is  right? and  brave,  and  wise.  One  day  jou  wWl 
thank  me  ” slid’ Aubrey;  he  kissed  her  forehead  gravely 
with  his  accustomed  salute  and  left  her. 

It  had  cost  him  much  to  keep  to  * °”e  1”  f ?'  it  £ 
semblance  almost  unsympathetic.  He  elt  t ,\ 
met  Guilderoy  upon  the  staircase  of  the  house  it  would 
been  a hard  sTruggle  not  to  have  insulted  him  m her  behalf. 
But  L knew  S the  advice  which  be  bad  given  her  was 
sound.  She  would  have  to  learn  to  bear  such  trials  as  t 
in  silence.  Probably  much  heavier  ones  would  await  her  in 

th  “ PoTchild ! ” he  thought  sadly.  His  heart  was  heavy  as 
he  walked  towards  Westminster.  His  thoughts  went  back 
to  the  days  of  liis  early  and  secret  marriage  : the  fatal  m 
take  of  his  boyhood,  which  had  been  confessed  to  his  father, 
S t. n. "Z  create  in  the  world.  He  roc.««d  tk.  .m- 
niense  devotion,  the  exaggerated  constancy,  wh.ch  . 

Xen  in  the  ardor  and  loyalty  of  youth  to  one  whose  worth- 
fessness  he  had  learned  too  late.  How  strange  how  contra- 
dictory how  cruel,  he  thought  the  caprices  and  the  awaids  of 
fate  - 7 He  who  in’the  loneliness  of  rank  and  power  would 
have  deemed  a great,  a disinterested  and  a faithful  love  th 
dearest  of  earth’s  treasures,  had  been  betrayed  w ere  m 
giveTheart  and  soul  and  honor;  and  his  cousin  tc . whom i o 
mve  constancy  was  impossible,  and  to  receive  it  was  wean 
some,  had  the7 whole  life  of  this  beautiful  child  centered  m 
him,  and  was  moved  by  it  rather  to  impatience  and  anno)- 
ance  than  to  any  other  emotion.  ^ 

“He  will  want  some  day  what  he  throws  away  now, 
thought  Aubrey,  as  he  walked  to  his  place  in  the  Chamber. 

And  the  next  moment  he  knew  that  this  reflection  was 
romantically  false  ; that  it  was  beyond  all  other  things  un- 
likely that  Guilderoy  would  ever  be  met  by  any  such  chas- 
tisement in  kind,  and  that  in  the  treasure-house  of  love  it  is 
frequently  those  who  give  the  least  who  most  receive. 


GUILDEBOr. 


* 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

“ I have  not  a doubt  the  Shiffton  woman  had  it  put  in  her* 
self  to  compromise  him.  It  is  just  the  sort  of  thing  she  would 
do,”  said  the  Duchess  of  Longleat,  when  he  spoke  of  the 
matter  to  her. 

“ He  has  no  right  to  place  himself  in  a position  to  be  com- 
promised,” said  Aubrey. 

“ The  best  advice  to  her,”  said  the  Duchess,  “ would  be  to 
flirt  outrageously  ; to  compromise  herself,  to  awaken  him  and 
affright  him.  But  one  hesitates  to  tell  her  that ; it  is  always 
playing  with  edged  tools.” 

“And  I do  not  think  she  would  do  it  if  you  did  tell  her. 
The  swan  cannot  affect  the  minauderies  of  the  peacock.  She 
is  not  of  that  type.” 

“No,  she  will  not  flirt,”  said  the  Duchess.  “But  she  may 
do  worse.  If  she  is  refoulee  sur  ellememe , she  may  throw  her- 
self into  some  flood  of  real  passion,  half  out  of  vengeance,  and 
half  out  of  the  need  of  love.  That  is  usually  the  way  with 
women  who  are  reserved  in  manner  but  have  warm  hearts.” 
“ There  is  no  such  passion  in  our  day.” 

“ Oh,  my  dear,  that  is  a mere  phrase.  There  is  as  much, 
or  as  little,  as  there  ever  was  probably.  Your  favorite  Greeks 
and  Latins  were  as  fond  of  butterfly  loves  as  our  society  is, 
if  I remember  aright  the  verses  that  you  used  to  translate  to 
me  at  Balfrons  when  we  were  children.” 

“ Yes,  but  theirs  were  loves,  whilst  they  lasted;  in  most  of 
the  ‘ affairs ? of  our  days  what  is  there  except  vanity,  adver- 
tisement, often  avarice,  sometimes  reclame , at  best,  sensual 
impulses  ? Of  passion  nothing,  or  almost  nothing.” 

“ I think  she  would  be  capable  of  more.” 

' “ I think  so  too ; she  is  capable  of  more ; but  it  is  thrown 
away  on  a man  who  does  not  even  perceive  it.” 

“ She  will  not  always  give  everything  for  nothing.” 
“Probably;  and  that  makes  her  danger.  If  she  ever  loves 
anyone  else  she  will  not  be  content  with  one  of  the  passing 
liaisons  of  which  we  see  so  much ; she  will  believe  herself 
lost,  as  women  believed  in  old  days,  and  will  end  her  life 
wretchedly  in  ceaseless  remorse. 


QUILDEROY. 


15 1 


4t  It  is  Guilderoy  who  should  have  the  remorse.” 

Aubrey  smiled  bitterly. 

“ My  dear ! Do  you  think  he  could  ever  be  stirred  to  such 
an  emotion,  even  if  he  stood  by  her  dead  body  ? He  would 
say  that  she  had  always  been  unreasonable  and  unsympa- 
thetic. Every  woman  seems  to  him  unsympathetic  and  un- 
reasonable, who  does  not  at  once  understand  his  desertion  of 
her.” 

He  felt  the  greatest  anger  against  his  cousin  ; he  had  al- 
ways been  impatient  of  his  many  changes  and  his  countless 
passions,  and  he  had  blamed  him  for  wasting  all  his  years 
and  his  intelligence  in  the  mere  pursuit  of  women,  who  only 
wearied  him  as  soon  as  they  were  won.  But  now  his  anger 
against  him  took  a more  personal  shape.  He  felt  intolerant 
of  his  neglect  of  his  duties  and  his  indifference  to  all  that 
was  noblest  and  worthiest  of  culture  in  the  nature  of  Gladys. 

He  preserved  silence  towards  him,  because  his  intimate 
experience  of  the  world  told  him  that  interference  has  almost 
always  unhappy  issues,  and  he  saw  no  way  in  which  it  would 
be  possible  for  him  to  convey  to  Guilderoy  his  own  opinions 
without  producing  such  a quarrel  as  must  inevitably  put  an  end 
to  all  intimacy  between  them.  Besides,  what  effect  could  re- 
monstrance of  any  kind  have  upon  a temperament  like  his 
cousin’s  ? 

If  he  did  not  care  for  his  wife,  what  condemnation  or  per- 
suasion could  ever  induce  him  to  do  so  ? Feelings  are  not 
to  be  called  into  existence  by  censure  or  argument.  They 
are  wind-sown  flowers,  and  must  spring  how  and  where  they 
will. 

Gladys  kept  her  word. 

She  never  mentioned  the  matter  to  Guilderoy,  and  she 
never  flinched  or  even  betrayed  anger  when  she  met  Olive 
Shiffton  in  society,  as  she  constantly  did.  Her  manner  grew 
a little  colder,  a little  graver,  to  all  the  world  than  it  had 
been  before  ; and  all  the  women,  and  many  a man  said  what 
a pity  it  was  she  was  so  silent  and  looked  so  uninterested, 
that  none  could,  in  common  parlance,  “ get  on  ” with  her  5 
but  that  was  all.  She  went  out  into  the  world  with  her  pain 
hidden  under  conventional  courtesies,  with  quite  as  much 
courage  as  the  Spartan  boy  who  hid  the  growling  cub  beneath 
his  cloak. 

Was  it  true  ? That  wonder,  that  doubt  haunted  her  every 
hour.  It  occupied  her  every  thought.  It  almost  made  her 


158 


GUILDEROY. 


forget  her  little  dead  boys  in  their  tiny  coffins  on  beds  of 
dead  white  roses  in  the  churchyard  of  Ladysrood.  Was  it 
true  ? Was  it  ? 

At  times,  horrible  coarse  temptations  assailed  her — things 
that  she  had  read  of  or  heard  of,  means  by  which  women  in 
jealous  pain  learned  the  truth  through  interrogated  servants 
or  bribed  messengers.  But  such  temptations  only  passed 
through  her  mind  for  moments,  as  hot  winds  sweep  over  fair 
fields.  Her  loyalty  and  her  pride  alike  rejected  their  tempt- 
ing. Yet  the  impression  grew  more  strongly  upon  her  that 
it  was  true.  There  was,  or  she  fancied  there  was,  an  insol- 
ence of  triumph  in  the  black  languid  eyes  of  Olive  Shiffton, 
whenever  they  met  hers  across  a crowded  room,  which  to  her 
tortured  fancy  confirmation  writ.  And  she  had  not  even  the 
solace  of  Aubrey’s  presence ; for  ten  days  after  the  day  on 
which  she  had  received  the  journal  he  had  been  compelled  to 
go  to  Balmoral  as  the  minister  in  attendance  on  the  Queen. 

What  was  the  use  of  a great  love,  she  thought  wearily,  if  he 
to  whom  it  was  given  neither  heeded  nor  wanted  it  ? 

It  was  certainly  beautiful  in  theory  for  her  father  to  bid 
her  make  hers  so  great  that  her  husband  could  find  no  other 
equal  to  ifc ; but  if  its  force,  its  sincerity,  its  magnitude,  only 
formed  a total  which  was  wearisome  to  the  object  of  it,  what 
then  ? What  good  could  it  effect  ? To  what  purpose  did  it 
exist  ? She  could  comprehend  that  women  might  pardon  in^ 
constancy,  where  it  was  loyally  confessed  and  generously 
atoned  for ; she  could  imagine  that  there  might  be  relations 
which  only  became  closer,  sweeter,  and  dearer  for  temporary 
separation  and  offences  of  the  passions ; but  neither  of  these 
was  her  case.  Guilderoy  neither  confessed  nor  atoned,  neither 
quarrelled  with  her,  nor  admitted  that  he  offended  her.  Ha 
simply  went  his  own  way  as  though  he  had  never  married 
her,  and  was  at  once  so  calm,  so  courteous,  and  so  careless 
that  such  serenity  hurt  and  insulted  her  more  in  her  own 
sight  than  any  quarrel  with  her  would  have  done.  Aubrey 
and  her  father  both  spoke  of  her  duties  as  making  patience, 
silence,  and  endurance  her  obligation  ; but  she  was  too  young 
and  too  much  in  love  with  her  husband  to  resign  herself  to 
that  mute  course  without  the  most  painful  effort.  Ho 
doubt  they  were  right,  no  doubt  they  were  wise,  she 
thought  bitterly;  but  they  were  not  women  with  aching  hearts 
that  they  could  understand.  Did  anyone  understand  ? Ho 
one  in  the  world,  she  thought.  Everyone  seemed  to  consider 


GU1LDER0Y. 


159 


that  such  trials  as  hers  were  inevitable  and  mattered  little. 
Everyone  seemed  to  hold  that  the  material  advantages  of  posi- 
tion and  fortune  were  compensation  enough  for  all  pain. 

She  loved  him  with  all  the  tender  and  fanciful  poetry  of 
youth  and  womanhood ; but  any  expression  of  it  had  been 
crushed  into  silence  in  her,  by  the  consciousness  which  came 
to  her  very  early  that  it  would  seem  to  him  inopportune  and 
wearisome.  He  was  not  a man  to  prolong  passion  after  pos- 
session, and  any  evidence  of  his  wife’s  for  him  would  have 
been  sure  to  find  him  cold  and  critical.  He  had  hinted  as 
much  to  her  once,  and  her  mind,  sensitive  and  receptive  to  a 
fault,  never  forgot  the  impression  given  to  her  by  it.  He 
had,  without  intending  it,  conveyed  to  her  the  sense  that  she 
was  his,  much  as  were  the  other  decorations  of  his  state  and 
his  position  ; the  companion  of  his  days  of  ceremony,  not  of 
his  hours  of  pleasure,  the  associate  of  his  rank,  but  not  of  his 
affections. 

He  had  not  intended  to  give  her  this  impression  in  any 
measure  so  strongly  as  she  had  received  it ; but  it  had  been 
given  even  in  the  early  Venetian  days,  and  could  not  be  ef- 
faced, When  the  speaker  is  careless  of  what  he  says,  and  the 
hearer  listens  with  apprehension  and  self-torment,  the  latter 
constantly  is  wounded  when  the  former  had  no  intent  what- 
ever to  wound. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

It  was  a fortnight  after  that  day  that  she  chanced  to  stop 
her  carriage  one  afternoon  at  a fashionable  club  ; old  Lord 
Balfrons,  who  scarcely  ever  stirred  out  of  his  own  houses, 
had  been  in  person  to  her  desiring  to  see  Guilderoy  at  once. 
She  did  not  know  at  all  where  he  was,  and  said  so,  but  his 
uncle  was  sure  that  he  was  at  one  of  his  clubs  at  that  hour, 
and  bade  her  go  and  inquire.  The  old  marquis  was  angered 
and  anxious  ; he  had  set  his  fancy  on  securing  a certain 
Vandyke  which  had  come  into  the  market,  and  in  his  son’s 
absence  required  the  offices  of  his  nephew.  He  was  petulant, 
eager,  and  unreasonable  as  great  age,  like  youth,  is  apt  to  be 
wken  there  is  a chance  that  one  of  its  whims  may  be  thwarted ; 


160 


GUILDEROY. 


and  Gladys,  afraid  to  vex  him,  did  what  she  had  never  done 
before,  and  drove  to  various  houses  in  Pall  Mall  and  St. 
James’  Street. 

At  one  of  them  the  porter,  new  to  his  place  and  ill-versed 
in  the  prudence  which  his  situation  required,  came  to  her 
carriage  door  with  a note  in  his  hand.  He  said  that  Guilde- 
roy  had  not  as  yet  been  to  the  club  that  day,  but  there  was  a 
letter  which  had  come  for  him  ; would  her  ladyship  take  it  ? 
Gladys  took  the  envelope  in  her  hand,  and  she  recognized  the 
gray  olive  leaf  and  the  gold  letter  S.  For  an  instant  a hor- 
rible temptation  assailed  her ; she  held  the  note  one  brief 
instant  in  her  hand  while  the  color  changed  in  her  cheeks 
from  pale  to  red,  from  red  to  pale,  in  rapid  alternation.  In 
another  instant  she  had  conquered  the  temptation  • she 
remembered  the  scorn  which  her  father  would  have  for  her 
if  she  yielded  to  it. 

She  gave  the  letter  back  to  the  porter. 

“ Lord  Guilderoy  will  take  it  when  he  comes,”  she  said,  in 
a voice  which  trembled  a little  despite  her  efforts.  “ To  the 
park,”  she  said  to  her  servant ; and  the  horses  bore  her  rap- 
idly away. 

The  day  chanced  to  be  fine  ; the  sunshine  was  gay.  Her 
friends  and  acquaintances  saluted  her  by  the  score ; but 
though  she  mechanically  returned  their  salutations  she  was 
not  sensible  of  what  she  did.  The  noise  of  the  streets  was 
like  the  sound  of  a great  sea  in  her  ears,  and  the  yellow  light, 
with  the  motes  of  the  sunbeams  and  the  vapors  of  the  smoke 
dancing  in  it,  was  vague  and  confused  before  her  eyes. 

The  sight  of  the  letter  had  confirmed  the  suspicion  which 
had  haunted  her  for  some  days.  J ealousy  seemed  to  her  a 
miserable  and  a vulgar  thing ; a wretched  weakness  which 
any  woman  of  courage  and  pride  should  scout  as  a degrada- 
tion ; and  yet,  being  only  human,  she  was  jealous,  and  she 
suffered  intensely. 

“Does  pain  always  make  vileness  so  easy?  ” she  thought 
bitterly.  That  she  should  have  felt  such  a temptation  seemed 
for  one  moment  to  have  sunk  her  fathoms  deep  in  indignity. 
John  Vernon  had  taught  her  the  code  of  honor  of  a high-bred 
gentleman,  the  kind  of  teaching  which  is  unhappily  omitted 
from  the  education  of  most  women,  yet  which  is  more  neces- 
sary for  their  own  happiness,  and  that  of  those  connected 
with  them,  than  all  the  learning  or  graces  in  the  world.  Had 
he  wholly  ceased  to  care  for  her  ? Had  he,  indeed,  ever 


GUILDEROY. 


161 


really  cared  at  all  ? The  doubt  which  had  so  long  festered 
and  ached  in  her  heart  became  a certainty.  She  did  not  be- 
lieve that  he  had  ever  loved  her.  In  truth  he  never  had. 

She  did  not  see  him  that  day  or  evening  at  all ; they  had 
different  engagements.  The  next  day  they  had  a dinner 
party  at  home ; she  saw  him  for  a moment  before  it,  and  took 
the  occasion  to  say  to  him  : — 

“ Would  you  mind  my  going  to  Ladysrood  for  a few  days  ? 
I am  tired  of  the  hurry  of  the  season.” 

“ My  love,  always  do  what  you  wish,”  answered  Guilderoy, 
with  the  careless  amiability  of  indifference.  “ I would  not 
remain  long  were  I you;  it  would  look  odd  at  this  mo- 
ment.” 

“He  does  not  even  wish  me  away,”  she  thought.  “ So  little 
does  my  presence  affect  him  ! ” 

Aloud  she  answered : — 

“ I will  only  stay  three  days  : only  time  enough  to  see  my 
father.” 

“ Your  father  should  come  into  the  world.  It  is  a pity  he 
is  so  eccentric.  He  would  be  the  most  popular  man  in  Lon- 
don if  he  would  only  show  himself.” 

“ He  would  not  care  for  popularity.” 

“ I wish  you  did  ; at  the  least  it  is  a very  amiable  quality, 
and  wins  one  innumerable  friends.” 

“ You  are  very  popular.” 

There  was  an  accent  which  sounded  disagreeably  in  the  ear 
of  Guilderoy  in  the  few  simple  words. 

“I  do  not  think  I am,”  he  said  with  irritation.  “I  care 
too  little  about  other  people.  I am  too  great  an  egotist,  as 
you  and  your  father  are  always  telling  me ; and  I believe  it 
is  true.” 

“You  are  very  popular,”  she  repeated  quietly.  “At  least 
with  women.” 

“ You  do  me  much  honor,”  he  replied,  with  a little  laugh, 
not  entirely  free  from  embarrassment.  At  that  moment  the 
first  of  their  guests  entered  their  drawing-rooms.  The  next 
morning,  very  early,  before  Guilderoy  was  awake,  she  left  the 
house,  and  took  the  express  train  of  the  forenoon  to  Ladys- 
rood without  announcing  her  arrival  there  to  anyone.  In  the 
coolness  of  the  late  summer  afternoon  she  drove  her  ponies 
over  the  moor  to  her  father’s  cottage.  The  sandy  road,  run- 
ning between  high  banks  of  marl  and  sandstone,  crowned 
with,  blossom  and  furze,  with  nodding  foxgloves  and  with 


162 


GUILDS  EOT. 


csmunda  fern,  was  tlie  same  which  John  Vernon  had  taken 
after  the  ceremony  of  her  marriage,  when  he  had  wished  the 
golden  flowers  to  be  a symbol  of  her  path  through  life. 

The  evening  was  gray  and  still,  and  very  peaceful ; there 
was  a honey  smell  in  the  air  rising  from  the  short  wild  thyme  ; 
it  had  rained  the  day  before,  and  there  was  a delicious  moisture 
in  the  air ; the  moors  were  lonely ; here  and  there  girls 
drove  a flock  of  geese  across  them,  or  a herd  of  red  and  dap- 
pled cattle  was  seen  browsing  quietly. 

The  simple  familiar  scene  touched  her  painfully.  It  seemed 
centuries  since  she  had  been  a child  there  herself,  as  careless 
as  the  girl  that  drove  the  geese,  as  the  young  heifers  that 
cropped  the  thyme  ; and  yet  not  much  more  than  three  years 
had  gone  by  since  she  had  been  found  in  the  hut  with  the 
fox  cub,  and  had  left  childhood  behind  forever,  not  knowing 
her  loss. 

She  found  John  Vernon  reading  a mighty  folio  of  ancient 
date  under  the  apple  trees  of  his  pasture,  and  for  a moment 
she  felt  a child  again,  when  she  saw  the  ivy-shrouded  porch, 
the  homely  sweet-smelling  garden,  the  low  thatched  roof,  and 
the  lattice  window  of  her  own  chamber.  She  never  came  to 
Christslea  without  a sense  of  peace  returning  to  her  for  so 
long  as  she  stayed  under  its  tangle  of  honeysuckle  and  of 
sweetbriar. 

“ Why  did  you  not  tell  me,  my  dear  ? I would  have 
awaited  you  at  Ladysrood,”  said  Vernon.  “ What  can  possi- 
bly bring  you  down  in  the  height  of  the  season  ? Are  you 
not  well  ? You  look  tired.” 

“ The  life  is  fatiguing  ; there  is  nothing  real  in  it ; it  is  all 
haste  and  turmoil.” 

“ Nevertheless  you  should  enjoy  even  that  at  your  age.  I 
think  they  call  it  being  dans  le  mouvement , do  they  not  ? I 
suppose  the  mouvement  is  much  wilder  and  more  breathless 
than  it  was  in  my  day.  However,  my  dear  child,  whatever 
the  sins  of  the  world,  I am  grateful  to  them  since  they  have 
sent  you  to  lighten  my  loneliness.” 

“You  will  come  back  to  Ladysrood  with  me,  will  you  not? 
I shall  only  be  here  one  day,  I must  go  back  on  the  third ; 
there  is  a State  ball ; they  would  not?  like  me  to  be  absent 
from  it.” 

“I  will  come  with  you  willingly,”  said  John  Vernon 
u You  know  without  you  at  Christslea, 


GU1LDER0Y. 


163 


* Non  semper  idem  floribus  est  honor 
Nernis,  neque  uno  Luna  rubens  nitet  Vultu.’  ” 

“ I love  to  hear  a Latin  line  ! ” said  his  daughter.  “ It 
makes  me  feel  young  again.” 

“ Poor  aged  soul!”  said  Vernon,  with  a smile.  “ Surely 
Guilderoy  often  lets  you  hear  one ; he  is  old-fashioned  like 
myself  in  his  habit  of  quotation.” 

u I never  hear  one  from  him,”  said  Gladys  hastily  and 
coldly,  Her  father  looked  at  her,  but  made  no  comment. 

When  she  had  renewed  her  acquaintance  with  the  old  man 
and  woman  who  formed  the  household  of  Christslea,  with  the 
cocks  and  the  hens,  with  the  birds  and  the  bees,  with  the  red 
and  white  stocks  and  the  clumps  of  sweet  william,  and  to 
please  the  old  servants,  had  drunk  a little  cider  and  eaten  a 
piece  of  honeycomb,  sitting  in  the  porch,  she  drove  her  father 
home  with  her  in  the  now  darkening  night  to  Ladysrood. 

“I  have  to  tell  you  a sad  tale,”  said  Vernon,  as  they  crossed 
the  moors.  “ Your  friend  the  fox  has  gone  to  his  doom  at 
last.  They  say  if  one  is  born  to  be  hanged  no  water  can 
drown  one,  and  so  I suppose  if  one  is  born  to  be  hunted  no 
power  can  save  one.  You  know  the  care  I took  of  him  all 
these  years,  and  apparently  no  life  could  be  happier  as  we 
vulgarly  construe  happiness.  But  Reynard  had  a soul  above 
butcher’s  meat  and  inglorious  safety.  His  instincts  were  too 
strong  for  his  wisdom.  He  could  not  get  away  above  ground, 
but  we  forgot  to  allow  for  his  tunnelling  powers.  So  one 
fine  morning  last  week  there  was  no  Reynard,  and  in  his 
stead  was  a hole  bored  under  the  fence  and  through  the  earth, 
much  further  and  deeper  than  any  terrier  we  put  in  could 
follow.  It  is  only  too  clear  ; he  has  gone  to  the  joys  of  liberty 
and  an  empty  stomach.  I fear  you  will  be  vexed,  but  indeed 
it  is  no  fault  of  ours.  Ho  prisoner  of  state  ever  fared  more 
sumptuously.  But  instinct  was  stronger  than  all  owe  tempta- 
tions ; of  course  he  will  be  hunted  and  run  into  one  day,  but 
perhaps  after  all  he  has  chosen  the  better  part.  No  doubt  he 
is  saying  to  himself — 

* Better  one  hour  of  glorious  life  ! 9 ” 

Gladys  sighed  as  she  heard  the  tidings,  but  the  sigh  was 
not  for  the  lost  fox.  She  was  thinking  how  much  better  it 
had  been  if  Reynard  and  she  had  never  met  each  other  ! 

“ Really,  my  love,  you  should  be  a very  happy  woman,” 


164 


&VILVEBOY. 


said  Vernon,  as  the  ponies  trotted  through  the  deep  ferny 
brakes  of  the  park  over  the  smooth  grass  drives,  and  going  at 
a gallop  up  the  lime  avenue  of  the  western  entrance,  were 
pulled  up  before  the  great  house  standing  glorious  and  spiri- 
tualized in  the  white  moonlight,  with  all  its  towers  and  pin- 
nacles and  fantastic  corbels  standing  out  against  the  starlit 
sky. 

66  Because  the  park  is  fine  and  the  house  is  handseme  ? ” 
said  Gladys,  in  a tone  which  he  had  never  heard  from  her 
“ Surely  these  are  very  coarse  and  material  reasons  for  you  to 
allege  ? I thought  you  never  weighed  externals.” 

“I  do  not  think  they  are  coarse  reasons,”  said  Vernon,  a 
little  coldly.  “ Beauty  is  a great  element  in  happiness.  Not  the 
only  factor,  certainly,  but  a very  important  factor  neverthe- 
less, for  those  who  have  eyes  to  see  it.  I think  the  possession 
of  an  ancient,  historical,  and  beautiful  house  is  one  of  the 
most  poetic  pleasures  in  life ; and  I think,  too,  that  the  in- 
difference with  which  many  of  the  owners  of  such  houses  con- 
sider them  is  one  of  the  greatest  signs  of  decay  in  any  nobility. 
Not  long  ago,  too,  my  dear,  you  were  in  love  with  Ladysrood. 
I hope  you  do  not  tire  of  it  because  it  is  yours.  That  would 
be  a sad  lesson  for  London  life  to  have  taught  you.” 

“ I like  it  very  much,”  said  Gladys  ; but  the  tone  had  no 
warmth  in  it.  “ I daresay  if  my  little  boys  had  lived  I should 
have  felt  affection  for  it.” 

1,6  You  will  have  other  children,  no  doubt,”  said  Vernon, 
“ and  I should  have  thought  there  were  already  existing  rea- 
sons for  you  to  be  attached  to  your  home.” 

She  did  not  reply. 

“ I confess  I am  very  attached  to  it  myself,”  he  continued, 
not  wishing  to  dwell  too  seriously  on  the  subject.  u It  is  a 
really  noble  place,  and  though  it  is  very  eclectic  in  the  many 
various  tastes  which  have  gone  to  make  it  what  it  is,  yet  it  is 
harmonious  even  in  its  contradictions  of  styles  and  epochs. 
The  only  perfect  house  is  a house  in  which  one  reads  as  in  a 
book  the  history  of  a race.” 

It  was  nine  o’clock.  Dinner  awaited  them,  served  in  the 
small  dining  room  of  the  Queen  Anne  wing  of  the  house. 
Vernon  ate  nothing,  as  was  his  custom  at  that  hour,  and  his 
daughter  ate  little ; her  favorite  dogs  supplied  willing  appetites. 
The  dinner  over,  she  and  he  strolled  out  on  to  the  west  ter- 
race : the  air  was  very  warm,  the  stars  brilliant,  the  sound  of 
the  distant  sea  came  to  their  ears  on  the  silence ; behind 


GUILD  EROY. 


165 


them  were  the  lighted  windows  of  the  wings,  before  them  the 
quaint  green  garden,  with  its  high  clipped  hedges,  its  fish- 
ponds, its  yew  trees  under  which  Charles  Stuart  had  played 
at  bowls,  and  Elizabeth  Tudor  sat  to  watch  a midsummer 
masque  sparkling  amongst  the  roses.  They  stood  awhile 
leaning  against  the  balustrade  of  the  terrace,  then  Vernon 
sat  down  on  one  of  the  stone  chairs,  and  said  quietly 

“ Tell  me,  my  love,  why  have  you  come  to  me  ? ”. 

Gladys  did  not  change  her  position.  She  still  leaned  her 
arms  on  the  balustrade,  her  chin  rested  on  her  hands,  her 
eyes  looked  into  the  dewy  darkness  of  the  hushed  night. 

“ I wanted  to  tell  you  what  a vile  and  mean  thing  I nearly 
did,”  she  answered  slowly  ; and  she  told  him  of  her  tempta- 
tion to  open  the  letter. 

Vernon  sat  mute,  his  face  in  shadow,  and  he  spoke  no  word 
till  she  had  finished  quite  * even  then  he  waited  some  mo- 
ments ere  he  answered. 

“ You  could  not  help  your  longing,”  he  said  at  length.  “ It 
is  just  these  inclinations  towards  base  actions  which  some- 
times enter  the  highest  souls  which  make  us  understand  how 
the  myth  of  the  devil  arose.  I am  thankful,  indeed,  that  my 
daughter  did  not  stoop  to  baseness.” 

She  turned  her  face  towards  him,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of 
tears. 

“He  does  not  love  me,  you  know.  I have  known  it  a 
long  time.  I do  not  think  he  ever  did.” 

“ My  dear  ! You  are  dreaming ! Why  else  should  he 
have  married  you  ? ” 

“ It  was  a caprice — he  has  so  many  caprices.  Do  you  re- 
member that  line  in  the  Phaedrus : — ‘ What  we  call  winged 
Eros,  the  immortals  call  Pteros  for  his  flighty  nature  ? ’ Pteros 
is  his  love.  He  knows  no  other.”' 

John  Vernon  listened  with  bitter  regret.  He  had  known 
that  it  was  so ; he  had  always  known  it ; but  he  had  hoped 
that  she  would  be  young  enough  and  blind  enough  not  to 
find  it  out  herself — at  all  events  not  to  find  it  out  until  time 
should  have  rendered  it  a matter  of  little  moment  to  her. 
All  his  heart  yearned  towards  her  in  this  her  first  great  sor- 
row, but  he  believed  that  sympathy  would  be  the  unkindest 
kindness  which  he  could  give  her.  What  was  the  use  of 
feeding  morbid  regrets  and  sense  of  wrong  which  could  never 
avail  in  any  way  to  get  her  back  what  she  believed  that  she 
had  lost? 


166 


GUILDEBOT. 


“ I think  you  speak  very  bitterly  and  hastily  on  small 
grounds,”  he  said,  resisting  his  desire  to  sympathize  with 
her  and  curse  the  man  who  had  made  her  unhappy.  “It 
does  not  in  the  least  follow  that  because  a woman  writes  to 
him  secretly  that  he  invites,  or  even  cares  for  her  to  do  so. 
It  may  be  even  an  annoyance  to  him  that  he  cannot  prevent. 
You  cannot  tell ! ” 

“ I can  tell.  I have  seen  them  together  a hundred  times. 
I believe  the  whole  world  knows  it — except  myself.” 

“ Well,  let  us  admit  that  it  is  so.  I do  not  defend  him. 
But  I do  say,  my  dear,  that  jealousy  in  a man’s  wife  makes 
her  odious  to  him  and  ridiculous  to  the  world  at  large.  In 
a woman  who  is  not  his  wife  jealousy  may  be  permissible, 
because  her  tenure  is  so  insecure  that  she  may  naturally 
tremble  for  its  duration.  But  in  his  wife  it  is  to  others 
absurd  and  to  him  intolerable.  Tine  femme  qui  se  respecte 
rtest  jamais  jalouse.  My  dear  child,  you  are  still  very 
young ; you  still  know  no  more  than  very  young  women  do 
of  the  characters  and  passions  of  men.  My  dear,  I can 
assure  you  of  one  thing — no  man  is  constant  to  one  woman. 
Male  constancy  is  not  in  nature,  and  therefore  it  is  not  de- 
manded in  law.  I understand  that  you  are  in  love  with 
your  husband,  and  therefore  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  under- 
stand why  he  is  no  longer  in  love  with  you.  I can  tell  you, 
my  child,  that  nature  has  made  man  inconstant ; utterly  in- 
constant through  his  senses  even  when  he  remains  constant 
in  his  heart.  It  is  terrible  to  you;  it  is  terrible  to  every 
woman  when  she  learns  it  for  the  first  time.  But  the  only 
women  who  ever  arrive  at  retaining  happiness  are  those  who 
recognize  this  as  a fact,  and  allow  for  the  man’s  infidelity  as 
they  would  pardon  an  infant’s  forwardness.” 

She  was  silent ; her  chin  still  rested  on  her  hands,  her 
eyes  still  gazed  into  the  shadowy  woods  which  surrounded 
the  gardens  beneath  her.  Her  whole  soul  rebelled  passion- 
ately at  the  suggestion  that  she  should  accept  inconstancy  as 
inevitable  and  forgive  it  as  immaterial ; she  had  all  the  vehe- 
mence, the  narrowness,  the  exclusive  passion  of  youth  and  of 
womanhood. 

“ Why  did  you  not  tell  me  all  this — before  you  let  me 
marry  ? ” she  said  at  last,  very  bitterly. 

Vernon  had  long  known  that  some  day  or  other  that  re- 
proach would  be  brought  against  him. 

“It  would  have  been  no  use,  my  lore,”  he  said,  gently  j 


\xUILDEROY* 


167 


« no  use  whatever  if  I had.  Love  had  blinded  you.  And  I could 
not  even  speak  of  such  things  to  a child  like  you.  What 
could  you  have  understood  ? You  do  not  even  understand 
much  now.” 

“ I understand,  then,  you  think  him  right  ? ” 

“ I have  never  said  so.  I do  not  necessarily  approve  a 
thing  because  I admit  its  possibility.  Abstractedly,  I agree 
with  Plato  that  men  should  govern  their  passions,  but  actu- 
ally I know  that  they  do  not  do  so  until  they  are  at  least  as 
old  as  I am,  and  not  always  then.  And  what  I most  want 
you  to  see  is,  that  even  if  your  husband  be  indeed  unfaithful 
to  you,  which  is  a mere  assumption  on  your  part,  you  will 
gain  nothing  by  the  endeavor  to  resent  what  you  cannot 
alter.  After  all,  my  child,  if  a woman  cannot  keep  the  affec- 
tions she  has  once  won,  pride  should  keep  her  from  lament- 
ing her  own  failure,  and  tenderness  should  make  her  silent 
on  it.  You  seem  to  me  to  be  drifting  into  a state  of  irrita- 
tion and  of  aigreur , which  can  serve  no  purpose  except  that 
of  your  enemies,  if  you  have  any,  who  may  wish  to  see  the 
breach  widened  between  you  and  Guilderoy.” 

“The  women  who  care  for  him  wish  it  no  doubt.” 

“Well,  it  is  into  their  hands  that  you  play.  You  have 
self-control  and  you  have  intelligence.  I want  you  to  per- 
ceive that,  whatever  she  may  feel,  only  a weak  woman  and  a 
silly  woman  degrades  herself  by  the  exhibition  of  conjugal 
jealousy.” 

She  was  again  silent  5 she  bit  her  lips  to  restrain  the 
emotion  which  well-nigh  mastered  her.  She  knew  that  her 
father  was  right,  but  the  advice  struck  on  the  aching  warmth 
of  her  young  heart  like  cold  steel  on  warm  flesh. 

John  Vernon’s  own  heart  ached  for  her,  and  had  he  fol- 
lowed his  impulse  he  would  have  given  her  the  mere  fond, 
unreasoning,  consoling  sympathy  that  another  woman  would 
have  given.  But  he  knew  that  it  would  be  the  most  un- 
wholesome thing  that  he  could  offer  her  in  such  a moment. 

“ You  have  said  nothing,  I hope,  to  Guilderoy  ? ” he  asked 
her.  She  shook  her  head.  “ Pray  continue  to  say  nothing. 
If  it  be  not  as  you  suppose,  a false  accusation  would  incense 
him  greatly  : if  it  be  as  you  suppose,  it  could  do  no  possible 
good.  You  would  drive  him  either  into  a subterfuge  or  a 
rage.  Neither  are  desirable  results.  Believe  me,  my  dear, 
a wise  woman  never  asks  questions.  What  is  the  use  of  ask- 
ing them  ? The  person  tormented  takes  refuge  in  prevari 


168 


GTJILDEIIOY . 


cation  or  in  downright  falsehood.  His  character  is  irritated 
and  injured,  and  the  woman  who  has  worried  him  sinks  far- 
ther and  farther  from  any  chance  of  ever  obtaining  his  true  and 
voluntary  confidence.  Love  may  he  won  and  confidence  may 
he  won,  but  neither  can  be  bullied.” 

“What  am  I to  do  then  ? To  learn  to  care  nothing  ? Is 
that  the  best  ? ” she  asked  in  a cold  voice. 

“ God  forbid,”  said  Vernon.  “What  did  I tell  you,  my 
child,  the  day  you  first  came  home  after  your  marriage  ? That 
you  must  care  so  much  that  you  will  give  him  an  affection  he 
cannot  get  elsewhere.  I admit  that  this  requires  self  nega- 
tion, self-control,  self-effacement,  in  a measure  which  it  is  ex- 
ceedingly hard  to  attain.  Most  women  are  self-centred  even 
when  they  are  not  selfish.  Their  egotism  is  wholly  unlike 
male  egotism,  but’  it  is  apt  to  be  very  narrow  and  very  exact- 
ing. A man  changes  and  forgets  ; the  woman  often  does 
neither ; but  it  does  not  follow  that  for  that  reason  she  is  un- 
selfish, though  no  doubt  she  thinks  she  is,  in  her  close  adhe- 
rence to  her  memories.  My  dear  child,  life  is  not  all  a poem 
nor  all  a playtime.  It  is  often  monotonous,  trying,  and  full 
of  irritation.  This  period  of  yours  is  especially  so  to  you. 
But  you  will  not  make  it  smoother  or  happier  by  thinking 
yourself  wronged  on  small  proof.” 

“But  if  it  be  true  that  I am  ? Then ” 

“ Then — well,  even  then  I would  counsel  you  to  bear  it 
with  silence  and  with  dignity.  Expostulation  and  upbraid- 
ing are  bad  weapons,  and  cut  the  hand  which  uses  them.  I 
never  thought  that  Lord  Guilderoy  was  of  a character  which 
would  give  you  happiness.  I did  not  tell  you  so,  but  I told 
him  so  constantly.  He  has  the  natural  faults  of  a man  whom 
the  whole  world  has  conspired  to  spoil.  He  is  imaginative, 
impatient,  capricious,  and  inflammable  ; such  men  are  always 
inconstant ; they  cannot  help  being  so,  any  more  than  the 
vane  can  help  turning  with  the  wind.  But  he  has  many  lov- 
able and  generous  qualities  ; to  you  he  has  been  exceptionally 
generous : think  of  his  finer  nature  and  pardon  him  its  weak- 
er side.  This  is  the  only  counsel  I dare  give  you,  for  your 
sake  and  for  his.  Alas  ! I see  you  are  unconvinced.” 

“ I am  unhappy  ! ” she  said  in  her  heart,  but  she  did  not 
say  it  aloud.  She  was  angered  against  her  father ; she  had 
expected  from  him  indignant  denunciation  and  a sympathy 
which  would  not  pause  to  weigh  or  analyze.  Her  heart  was 
aching  bitterly  with  passionate  pain  which  would  have  will- 


GtTTZDEROr. 


im 


Ingly  found  vent  in  some  rash  action ; the  calm  philosophy  of 
John  Vernon  seemed  to  her  like  so  much  ice  given  her  when 
she  shivered  in  the  cold  and  asked  for  a shelter  by  the  fire. 

“ It  is  no  use  speaking  of  it,”  she  said  wearily,  after  a 
while,  “ let  us  go  in  ; I think  the  turmoil  of  London  hurts  me 
less  than  all  this  summer  silence.  One  wants  to  be  so  happy 
to  bear  to  look  at  the  stars.” 

Vernon  rose  and  put  his  arm  tenderly  upon  her  shoulder. 

“ My  dear  child  ! you  will  be  happy  again.  You  have  not 
bidden  adieu  to  life  at  twenty  years  old ! My  advice  sounds 
very  chill  and  unsympathetic  to  you,  no  doubt ; but  it  is  sound. 
It  is  of  no  use  to  rebel  against  woes  which  springs  from 
character.  You  are  very  young  still ; you  are  a beautiful 
woman : if  you  have  tact  and  patience  and  forbearance  you 
will  ultimately  vanquish  your  rivals  if  rivals  you  truly  have. 
But  if  you  display  jealousy,  if  you  descend  to  baseness,  to 
espionage,  to  recrimination,  you  will  forfeit  your  own  esteem 
and  you  will  lose  all  hold  upon  your  husband.  Men,  my  love, 
are  not  merciful  to  woman’s  tears  as  a rule ; and  when  it  is  a 
woman  belonging  to  them  who  weeps,  they  only  go  out  and 
slam  the  door  behind  them  ! ” 

u I shall  not  weep,  believe  me,”  she  said  bitterly  ; and  she 
drew  herself  away  from  his  touch  and  went  across  the  pave- 
ment of  the  terrace  into  the  drawing-room  which  opened  on 
to  it.  The  wax-lights  were  shining  on  the  red  satin  wall- 
hangings,  the  rococo  furniture,  the  Chelsea  and  Worcester 
china,  the  old  Delft  and  Nankin  vases  ; it  was  the  room  in 
which  Guilderoy  had  told  his  sister  of  his  intention  to  marry 
John  Vernon’s  daughter. 

Her  father  followed  her,  and  looked  at  her  in  silence,  with 
infinite  pity. 

u It  was  not  my  fault,”  he  thought.  “ I did  what  I could. 
It  was  the  old  story — si  jeunesse  scivait!  Ah!  si  jeunesse 
savait , what  marriage  would  ever  be  made  at  all  ? ” 

He  took  her  hands  in  his. 

“ My  dearest  Gladys,”  he  said,  gravely,  “ I confess  that  I 
do  not  think  your  life  will  be  very  happy.  I never  thought 
that  it  would  be.  You  have  a great  position  and  great  pos- 
sessions, but  you  are  not  of  a nature  to  be  satisfied  with  these. 
But  it  lies  with  you  to  retain  what  one  may  say  are  the  angels 
which  stand  about  the  throne  of  life — honor,  unselfishness, 
and  sympathy ; they  are  not  the  smiling  angels  which  yo^th 
loves  best,  but  they  have  a comfort  in  them  by  a dying  bed 


170 


&UILDEROY. 


Try  that  they  shall  always  he  with  you.  The  rest  of  the 
heavenly  troop  will  very  likely  come  behind  them  uncalled.” 

The  tears,  so  long  withheld,  rushed  into  her  eyes ; she 
kissed  the  hand  which  held  hers,  and  left  the  room.  He  let 
her  go,  and  himself  paced  to  and  fro  the  long  red  room  with 
agitated  steps  ; it  had  cost  him  effort  to  keep  so  calm  a tone, 
to  give  only  so  apparently  niggard  a sympathy. 

“ While  I am  here  I can  save  her  perhaps,”  he  thought. 
“But  when  I am  gone ” 

And  he  knew  that  this  might  be  soon,  for  what  he  had  never 
told  her  was  the  frail  tenure  on  which  his  own  life  hung, 
and  the  ever  near  end  of  all  things  which  was  only  warded 
off  by  that  perfectly  passionless  and  solitary  life  which  he 
was  supposed  by  her,  and  by  all  who  knew  him,  to  have 
selected  by  free  choice. 

“ When  I am  gone ” he  thought,  and  the  thought  was 

one  of  acute  and  intense  pain  to  him.  The  idea  that  he  would 
tell  her  husband  his  own  secret,  and  beseech  his  better  care  of 
her,  passed  through  his  mind ; but  what  use,  he  reflected, 
would  it  be  ? Guilderoy  was  gentle,  courteous,  and  kind  : 
easily  moved,  too,  for  awhile,  and  ready  to  promise  impossibili- 
ties ; he  would  be  sorry,  he  would  be  touched,  he  would  swear 
to  be  governed  by  loyalty  and  constancy  : and  then,  women 
and  the  world  would  surround  him,  and  he  would  forget.  It 
would  be  only  waste  of  words.  John  Vernon  never  wasted 
words,  and  for  a score  of  years  had  never  asked  for  sympathy  ; 
and  he  had  so  long  kept  in  his  own  breast  the  knowledge  of 
the  mortal  disease  within  him  that  he  could  not  have  brought 
himself  to  speak  of  it  without  painful  effort. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

“ Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  story  of  Griseldis  ? ” he 
asked  her  the  next  day  as  they  strolled  through  the  gardens. 

“ Yes  ; she  was  a very  foolish  woman.” 

Certainly  she  looks  somewhat  of  a fool  to  us.  But  per- 
haps she  was  in  truth  very  wise ; she  gained  what  she  wanted 
in  the  end.” 

“ She  had  certainly  a very  pitiful  spirit.” 


GTJILDERO?,  171 

“ Do  you  think  so  ? Patience  and  silence  are  never  piti- 
ful surely.  They  are  grand  qualities.” 

Gladys  smiled  with  some  scorn. 

“ A donkey  is  patient,  so  is  a cow.  We  do  not  rate  them 
very  highly  in  the  scale  of  creation.” 

“ Do  you  often  answer  Evelyn  in  that  tone  ? ” 

“ I do  not  know.  Yes,  perhaps,  I daresay  I do.  Why  ? ” 
“ Only  that  it  would  possibly  tend  to  make  him  seek  the 
society  of  those  who  do  not.” 

She  was  silent. 

“We  often  complain,”  continued  Vernon,  with  some  dream- 
iness in  his  tone,  “ that  others  do  not  care  for  us,  or  cease  to 
care  for  us ; and  we  seldom  ask  ourselves  if  the  fault  is  not 
ours,  if  we  are  not  often  irritating  and  even  intolerable  to 
them  ; if  we  try  to  understand  them  in  what  is  opposed  to 
us ; if  we  endeavor  to  give  them  what  they  wish,  not  what 
we  wish.  Love,  which  is  made  such  a fuss  about,  is  only  an 
immense  selfishness  unless  it  does  do  this.  What  do  you 
think?  You  despise  Griseldis ; what  would  you  have  had 
her  do  ? ” 

“ Go  away.” 

“ Go  away  ? And  leave  her  children  ? ” 

“ She  could  have  taken  them  with  her.” 

“A  dangerous  vengeance.  And  she  would  have  violated 
her  marriage  vows.” 

“ Since  he  violated  his,  she  would  surely  have  been  jus- 
tified.” 

“Ah  ! my  dear,  the  cases  are  not  parallel.  Both  psychology 
and  physiology  will  tell  you  so  if  you  study  them.  Gris- 
eldis no  doubt  had  never  studied  either,  but  she  was  wise 
enough  to  act  as  if  she  had.” 

“When  1 was  a child  and  read  the  story,  I despised 
her.” 

<c  Then  there  is  something  of  true  womanhood  lacking  in 
you,  my  dear.” 

“ Is  true  womanhood  abject  slavishness  ? ” 

“ It  is  infinite  abnegation  of  self.” 

Gladys  laughed,  and  there  was  a sound  of  hardness  in  the 
laugh. 

“Then  women  of  the  world  have  very  little  of  it,  indeed. 
They  dress,  they  flirt  if  they  can,  they  spend  money  when 
they  have  it,  and  run  bills  when  they  have  it  not ; they  make 
a fuss  over  a quantity  of  useless  undertakings  which  they  call 


172 


GUILDEROT. 


charity,  or  politics,  as  their  taste  is,  hut  they  never  sacrifice 
themselves  for  one  second  of  their  time  ; when  they  take 
their  lovers  it  is  with  a view  of  selfiagrandizement  by  some 
affair  which  will  make  them  more  sought  after  by  the  world 
and  by  other  men.  There  is  not  an  emotion,  scarcely  even  a 
sensual  preference,  in  any  one  of  their  attachments.  I wish 
that  you  would  come  into  the  world.  You  would  see  then 
there  would  be  no  place  in  it  for  Griseldis  if  she  were 
revived.” 

“ Griseldis  is  a figure  of  speech.” 

“ Yes.  Nowadays  she  would  have  the  income  of  her  set** 
tlements,  the  custody  of  her  children,  and  the  consolation  of 
the  newspapers.” 

“ You  are  rather  cynical,  my  dear.  It  is  not  becoming  in 
a young  woman,  and  it  is  not  lovable  in  an  old  one.” 

66  Ah ! I wish  I had  never  left  you  and  Christslea.” 

“ Do  you  think  you  would  have  been  contented  if  you  had 
married  a curate  or  a squire  ? I doubt  it.  There  is  some- 
thing naturally  grande  dame  in  you  which  would  have  re- 
belled against  small  means  and  narrow  lives.” 

“ I never  rebelled  when  I was  with  you.” 

“'No.  You  were  a good  child,  but  you  were  a child.  I 
did  not  welcome  your  marriage,  but  I doubt  if  I should  have 
been  stoic  enough  to  complacently  watch  your  roses  fade,  and 
your  years  slip  away,  in  the  rustic  loneliness  and  homeliness 
of  my  cottage.  It  was  lovely  to  see  }mu  in  it  at  seventeen, 
but  it  would  not  have  been  lovety  to  see  you  in  it  at  seven- 
and-twenty.  What  the  French  call  un  beaumariage  'xsziitex 
all  a magic  wand  to  a maiden.” 

She  did  not  speak,  but  she  gave  an  impatient  gesture. 
Yernon  looked  at  her  earnestly. 

“ Do  you  absolutely  regret  yours  ? ” he  asked.  “ Would 
you  undo  !t  if  you  could  ? ” 

“ This  moment ! ” 

There  was  the  vibration  of  intense  meaning  in  the  words. 
Vernon  sighed. 

“ That  is  terrible  if  it  be  true.  I hope  you  speak  in  haste 
and  in  offence.  You  are  more  unforgiving,  Gladys,  and  less 
generous  than  I thought  you.  I thought  that  your  feelings 
for  Guilderoy  were  of  a very  different  kind.” 

“ You  have  a curious  tenderness  for  him,”  she  said,  bit- 
terly.” 

“ I do  not  think  I have  any,”  replied  her  father.  “ But 


GUILDEEOY, 


173 


I confess  that,  as  a man  of  honor,  I feel  that  both  you  and  1 
are  bound  to  give  him  some  indulgence  in  return  for  the  con- 
fidence he  placed  in  us,  and  for  the  great  gifts  (though  you 
think  them  mere  vulgar  considerations)  which  he  has  lav- 
ished on  you  in  an  affection,  which,  if  not  eternal,  must  have 
been  genuine,  I am  the  last  person  on  earth  to  over-estimate 
such  gifts ; but  I am  also,  I confess,  the  last  person  on  earth 
who  could  tolerate  the  idea  that  my  daughter,  when  a man 
trusted  her  with  his  name,  and  his  good  name,  hated  the  one 
and  imperilled  the  other.  My  dear,  it  was  said  by  a Greek 
called  Socrates,  long  before  it  was  repeated  by  Christ,  that  it 
is  not  right  to  do  evil,  and  that  to  say  it  has  been  done  to  us 
is  no  excuse  or  reason  for  us  to  return  it.  Nor  can  I 
easily  conceive  that  one  could  feel  any  temptation  to  return 
it  if  it  were  done  by  a person  we  had  ever  once  loved ! ” 

He  spoke  very  calmly,  but  there  was  an  accent  of  sternness 
in  his  voice  which  she  had  never  heard  from  him.  She  felt 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had  in  all  the  world  no 
judge  so  just  but  none  so  unrelentingly  severe  as  her  father. 

The  question  which  sorely  perplexed  John  Vernon  was  not 
to  change  or  control  the  caprices  of  Guilderoy,  for  he  consid- 
ered that  hopeless,  but  how  to  induce  his  wife  to  comprehend 
them  in  a measure  and  to  view  them,  if  not  with  pardon,  at 
least  with  serenity  and  silence. 

What  else  was  there  for  . her  to  do  ? 

His  natural  affection  for  his  child  made  him  angered 
against  the  man  who  caused  her  mortification  and  pain,  but 
the  sense  of  justice  which  was  equally  strong  in  him  made 
him  conscious  that  it  was  impossible  for  such  a man  to  con- 
fine his  existence  within  the  limits  of  such  emotions  and  such 
actions  as  would  be  likely  to  please  the  ear  and  meet  the  ap- 
proval of  a woman  as  young  as  Glad}rs.  There  is  an  in- 
stinctive movement  towards  freedom,  an  instinctive  aver- 
sion to  self-confession,  in  the  breast  of  every  man  who  lias 
not  outlived  his  enjoyment  of  the  warmth  of  passion  and  the 
pleasures  of  liberty. 

“But  alas  ! alas  ! ” thought  John  Vernon,  “so  few  women 
are  wise  enough  to  know  this,  and  still  fewer  women  are  un- 
selfish enough  to  act  on  it ! Her  dignity,  her  demands,  her 
sentiments,  her  desires,  her  injuries,  and  her  rights  loom  so 
large  usually  in  a woman’s  sight  that  she  never  sees  beyond 
them,  and  thus  forever  misses  truth.” 

The  exceeding  justness  of  his  nature  made  him  able  to 


174 


GUILDEROY. 


conceive  the  irritation  that  it  would  be  to  Guilderoy  to  ac- 
count for  all  his  hours  to  a woman  as  young,  and  as  incap- 
able of  comprehending  his  errors,  as  his  wife  was  : and  he 
could  admit  the  innumerable  temptations  to  inconstancy 
which  his  fortune,  his  world,  and  his  disposition  combined  to 
make  irresistible  and  continual  to  him.  Now  and  then  a 
man  will  conquer  the  world  in  the  heart  of  a woman,  but 
never  will  a woman  conquer  the  world  in  the  heart  of  a man. 
Whatever  it  be — the  world  of  pleasure,  of  ambition,  or  of 
speculation — the  passion  of  it  having  once  entered  his  soul 
will  reign  there  forever  till  his  last  hour. 

u It  can  never  be  the  same  thing  between  a man  and  a 
woman,”  thought  Vernon.  u She — if  she  be  a woman  young 
and  innocent — she  has  a clean  bill  of  moral  health,  has 
nothing  to  conceal,  and  nothing  that  she  would  hesitate  to 
confide.  But  he  has  and  must  have  fifty  thousand  things  in 
his  past  and  present  that  are  not  subjects  for  confidence;  his 
life  cannot  be  narrowed  to  what  is  to  be  told  to  his  wife. 
Other  women  have  claims  on  his  silence  and  honor  : in  a 
word  he  is  a man,  and  requires  a man’s  large  liberty  of  action. 
When  moralists  pretend  that  it  should  be  otherwise,  they 
substitute  a conventional  fiction  which  has  led  to  hopeless 
pretensions  and  heartburnings  amongst  women.  Even  a 
lover  does  not  give  for  any  length  of  time  the  same  kind  of 
fidelity  that  the  woman  gives  to  him,  though  a lover’s  fidel- 
ity is  more  stimulated  than  that  of  a husband,  more  tempted 
to  remain  true  because  uncertain  of  its  tenure.  Dumas  fils 
and  many  other  writers  are  fond  of  pretending  that  fidelity 
should  be  equal  in  both  sexes,  but  they  only  put  forward  a 
wholly  untrue  and  impossible  thesis,  and  make  women 
wretched  because  they  incite  them  to  demand  what  both 
nature  and  law  will  forever  unite  to  refuse  them ! 99 

He  was  grieved  that  Gladys  was  no  wiser,  no  more  mag-, 
nanimous  than  the  rest.  Had  the  education  he  had  given 
her  been  in  fault  ? Had  sea  and  moor,  and  Latin  verse  and 
Saxon  Chronicle,  not  tended  to  make  her  into  stronger  stuff 
than  the  irrational,  egotistical,  and  wholly  unreasonable 
temper  of  the  majority  of  her  sex  ? Why  must  she,  like 
them,  take  jealousy  for  devotion,  irritation  for  passion,  offence 
for  dignity,  mortification  for  martyrdom  ? 

“ You  surely  do  not  mean  that  Guilderoy  would  leave  you 
for  another  woman  ? ” he  asked  abruptly. 

“ Oh,  no,”  she  answered,  bitterly.  “ He  would  neither  love 


OtllLDEROT . 


175 

nor  hate  me  enough  to  do  anything  of  the  kind.  Why  should 
he  do  it  either  ? He  does  not  think  enough  about  me  for  me 
to  he  the  slightest  embarrassment  to  him.” 

Her  father  sighed  as  he  heard. 

Against  indifference  the  gods  themselves  are  powerless. 
Had  Desdemona  waked  from  her  murdered  sleep  she  would 
have  found  the  tenderest  and  most  penitent  of  lovers  in  her 
jealous  lord  ; but  the  amiable  apathy  of  a careless  and  unobser- 
vant indifference  has  no  quality  in  it  of  that  kind  which  cata 
be  roused  and  changed  into  devotion  or  remorse. 

“ I think  he  even  likes  me  ! ” she  said  with  greater  bitter- 
ness still.  “ I annoy  him  sometimes  because  I am  not  pli- 
able, or  facile,  or  amusable  enough  ; but  on  the  whole  he  likes 
me,  and  if  receiving  an  innumerable  quantity  of  presents 
were  happiness  I should  be  in  Heaven.  What  he  does  not 
give  in  feeling  he  atones  for  in  furs  and  jewels  and  bibelots /” 
“ I hope,”  said  John  Vernon  gravely,  “that  you  do  not  say 
this  kind  of  thing  to  anyone  save  to  me  ?” 

“ISTo.”  She  colored  and  hesitated;  her  nature  was  full  of 
scrupulous  truth,  and  baseness  was  distasteful  to  her.  She 
always  told  the  truth  both  in  letter  and  spirit.  “ I have 
sometimes  said  something,  once  or  twice,  to  his  cousin,”  she 
added. 

Vernon  was  surprised. 

“You  mean  Lord  Aubrey  ? ” 

“Yes  ; he  has  seen  it  for  himself.  He  is  very  kind  to  me.” 
“ I should  have  thought  he  had  no  time  to  spend  on  a 
woman’s  imaginary  sorrows.” 

“ They  are  not  imaginary,  and  he  knows  that  they  are  not.” 
She  was  for  the  first  time  strongly  angered  against  her 
father.  He  seemed  to  be  unfeeling,  cold,  and  unjust. 

“ The  more  real  they  are  the  less  would  I speak  of  them— 
even  to  Aubrey — were  I you.” 

“ He  is  not  a stranger.  He  is  a near  relative,  and  a dear 
friend  of  ours.” 

“ A very  good  friend  too.  But  I should  have  thought  he 
was  sufficiently  occupied  with  his  friend  Britannia,  who 
from  having  been  a very  virtuous  housewife  in  bib  and  tucker, 
is  now  disposed  to  unloose  her  girdle  and  turn  into  a revolu- 
tionary maenad,  and  is  troublesome  accordingly.” 

He  spoke  carelessly,  for  he  did  not  wish  to  suggest  to  her 
any  possible  danger  in  the  intimacy  of  Aubrey,  whom  he 
knew  as  a man  of  high  honor  and  grave  and  lofty  character* 


176 


GtTTLDimOY. 


Yet  he  said  more  seriously,  after  a pause,  in  which  they 
passed  down  the  long  white  rose-colored  colonnade,  which 
was  a favorite  haunt  of  Guilderoy’s,  and  where  his  silken 
hammock  hung  at  one  end  ready  for  his  use  if  he  should 
come  there  : 

“ Still  I think  it  would  be  well,  my  love,  not  to  talk  of 
these  things,  whether  they  are  magnified  or  not  by  your  fancy 
or  feeling.  Ily  a une  pudeur  de  Vame.  That  sounds  a sen- 
timental saying,  but  there  is  a truth  in  it.  Whenever  we 
begin  to  uncover  our  soul  we  are  apt  to  forget  that.  We  are 
all  apt  to  lose  that  modesty  which  is  after  all  the  chief  beauty 
of  all  its  emotions.  I know  quite  well  that  women  have  a need 
to  unbosom  their  feelings  which  the  rougher  natures  of  men 
do  not  experience.  But  it  is  after  all  a weakness — a ten- 
dency which  even  they  should  contend  against ; for  it  is  like 
opium-eating,  it  increases  with  indulgence,  and  in  time  saps 
and  destroys  the  whole  vitality.” 

“ I think  you  mistake,”  said  Gladys  coldly.  “ It  is  not  I 
who  confide  in  anyone.  There  are  things  which  speak  for 
themselves,  and  signs  which  all  who  run  may  read.  The 
whole  world  will  not  be  blind  because  a man  may  wish  that 
it  should  be  so.” 

“ That  is  true ; but  people  will  not  offer  us  pity  if  they 
think  we  should  take  it  as  an  affront,  any  more  than  they 
would  offer  money  to  a ruined  gentleman  if  he  remained  a 
gentleman  still.” 

“ No  one  offers  me  pity,”  she  replied,  haughtily.  “On  the 
contrary,  they,  I believe,  share  your  opinion : that  because  I 
have  made  a beau  mariage  I can  want  nothing  more  from 
earth  or  Heaven  ! ” 

“ I never  said  so,  Gladys,”  replied  her  father  with  some 
coldness. 

She  was  silent,  conscious  that  she  bad  spoken  wrongly ; 
conscious  also  that  the  companionship  of  Aubrey  was  chiefly 
welcome  to  her  because,  though  he  never  put  it  into  direct 
words,  he  had  from  the  first  moment  that  he  had  addressed  her, 
given  her  the  sense  that  he  did  pity  her,  and  understood  why 
she  had  reason  to  be  pitied,  amidst  all  which  seemed  to  the 
superficial  observer  the  supreme  felicities  and  success  of  her 
lot. 

She  knew  the  fineness  of  her  father’s  penetration  and  in- 
tuition too  well  not  to  be  sure  that  he  must  see  even  as  Aubrey 
saw  5 and  she  was  angered  against  him  that  he  did  not  admit 


GUILDEROY. 


177 


it  himself  with  the  indignation  and  epanchement  which 
would  in  her  mood  of  that  moment  have  been  refreshing  to 
her. 

They  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  long  avenue  of  white 
roses;  it  was  carpeted  with  the  fallen  rose-leaves,  and  over- 
head the  thick  foliage,  starred  with  the  white  blossoms,  made 
the  light  fall  in  a green  faint  twilight  about  them. 

“Let  us  talk  of  something  else,”  said  John  Vernon. 
“ Self-analysis  is  seductive,  and  Goethe  benefited  the  world 
by  his,  but  if  we  are  not  Goethes  we  are  apt  to  become  Ober- 
manns  in  the  indulgence  of  it ; and  even  if  Goethe  had  less 
contemplated  himself,  1 for  one  should  have  loved  him  better. 
‘I  have  been  listening  to  what  the  vines  told  me/  he  said 
when  he  was  in  Italy.  I wish  he  had  listened  oftener  to  the 
vines  and  less  to  ‘the  immense  Me.*  What  a charming 
morning,  my  dear!  How  the  birds  sing,  and  the  leaves  glis- 
ten, and  the  roses  smile ! There  is  so  much  in  life  beside 
our  own  passions  and  pains,  if  we  could  but  think  of  it. 
c Taut  qu’un  arbre  poussera,  ce  sera  bon  de  vivre! * Is 
there  not  a certain  truth  in  that  ? ” 

“ To  a gypsy,  or  to  a poet,”  said  his  daughter,  bitterly. 
“When  do  we  have  time  to  see  a leaf  come  out  ? We  are 
always  surrounded  by  faces.  Can  one  see  the  sea  amongst 
the  crowds  on  the  beach  at  Biarritz,  or  the  trees  in  the  woods 
at  Homburg,  or  the  sunset  as  we  drive  home  from  the  Bois  ? 
Of  course  the  sea  is  there,  and  the  trees  and  the  sunset  are 
there ; but  to  see  them  in  the  sense  that  you  speak  of  is  im- 
possible. One  may  have  a day  like  this  now  and  then — 
twice  in  the  year  perhaps — and  then  one  realizes  all  that  one 
misses  all  the  rest  of  the  year  : that  is  all.  What  do  I see 
of  all  this  when  we  are  here  with  a great  party  ? Of  course 
it  is  all  around  us  like  a decor  de  scene,  but  I have  no  time 
to  feel  it.  There  are  quantifies  of  things  to  be  done;  ques- 
tions of  precedence,  programmes  of  amusement,  conversation 
to  make  up,  toilettes  to  be  changed  incessantly,  relays 
of  guests  to  be  assorted.  Of  course  one  feels  that  the 
woods  are  beautiful,  that  the  gardens  are  charming,  but  one 
has  no  leisure  to  look  at  them,  or  to  breathe  them  in,  as  it 
were,  as  I used  to  lie  under  the  orchard  trees  on  a summer 
afternoon,  and  look  through  their  boughs  at  the  moorlands 
lying  high  and  purple  in  the  heat;  I used  to  notice  every- 
thing then,  from  the  dragon-fly  in  the  fox-glove  to  the  cloud 


178 


GUILDER  OY. 


that  meant  rain  for  the  morrow.  But  now  I notice  nothing  $ 
I have  no  time.” 

She  looked  with  a sigh  through  the  arched  aisle  of  the 
rose-charmille 

Vernon  echoed  her  sigh. 

“ And  yet,  my  dear  child,”  he  said,  “I  fancy  that  if  you 
were  still  Gladys  Vernon  living  in  my  cottage,  and  there 
were  any  other  Lady  Guilderoy  reigning  here,  you  would  be 
very  likely  to  think  her  lot  much  brighter  and  more  brilliant 
than  your  own.  There  is  always  that  unkind  discontent  in 
human  life.  The  monarch  envies  the  sleep  of  the  cabin-boy, 
and  the  cabin-boy  thinks  if  he  were  only  a king  with  no  sea- 
water soaking  his  shirt,  and  no  black  billows  between  him 
and  his  home  ! It  is  always  so ; it  is  the  rule  of  existence  ; 
and  it  suggests  that  Plato  may  be  right,  and  that  we  have 
come  from  other  worlds  which  are  always  haunting  us  and 
making  us  uncomfortable  in  this  one. 

He  spoke  lightly,  for  he  wished  her  to  think  her  sorrows 
rather  general  than  individual,  but  his  own  heart  was  heavy. 
It  was  indeed  no  more  than  he  had  always  predicted  and 
foreseen,  but  the  realization  of  his  forebodings  did  not  con- 
sole him  for  them. 

She  went  back  to  the  London  life  with  a sense  of  added 
strength  and  of  restored  repose.  The  long,  quiet  summer 
day,  with  its  smell  from  heather-scented  lands  blowing 
through  green  woodlands  and  over  garden  flowers,  seemed  to 
go  with  her,  and  leave  some  of  its  peace  in  her  heart. 

How  safe  and  secure  and  easy  life  seemed  to  her,  spent  by 
those  gray  solitary  seas,  in  that  little  quiet  hollow,  under 
the  gorse-covered  cliffs  where  her  father’s  hermitage  was 
made. 

Was  he  right?  Would  she  have  been  discontented  there 
as  years  went  on?  She  did  not  think  so.  At  this  moment 
that  simple  homely  day  of  country  things  and  country  sight* 
and  sounds;  seemed  to  her  infinitely  charming  in  its  peace. 


GUILDS  EOT . 


179 


CHAPTER  XXVI, 

When  she  reached  town  after  her  visit  to  Ladysrood  this 
day  in  June,  she  entered  with  a sigh  the  beautiful  Palladian 
house,  with  its  glories  of  art  and  architecture,  its  domed  and 
frescoed  staircase,  its  pomp  of  powdered  servants,  and  its 
sweetness  of  hothouse  flowers,  dimmed  by  the  gray,  sad  at- 
mosphere of  a sunless  London  day.  The  season  was  at  its 
height;  everyone  said  that  it  was  brilliant  and  delightful; 
the  park  was  full  of  equipages  and  the  streets  full  of  well- 
dressed  multitudes ; but  to  her  it  seemed  dreary  as  any 
desert — cruel,  pitiless,  hateful.  Life  in  the  country  was  so 
much  easier,  sweeter,  safer.  All  her  weight  of  pain  and 
jealousy  seemed  to  fall  back  on  her  like  a slab  of  stone  as  she 
entered  that  mansion  which  such  countless  women  envied 
her. 

She  had  only  been  away  three  days,  but  the  accumulation 
of  notes  and  cards  and  letters  of  all  kinds  was  large.  She 
told  them  to  bring  her  some  tea  to  her  boudoir,  and  having 
slipped  on  a tea-gown  made  like  asacqueof  Lady  Mary  Wort- 
ley  Montague’s  from  a picture  by  Kneller,  she  sat  there  and 
glanced  at  her  correspondence.  It  was  just  six  o’clock ; there 
was  a large  and  important  dinner  for  royalty  on  her  list  for 
that  evening,  but  there  were  yet  two  full  hours  before  she 
need  dress  for  it.  She  drank  her  tea  all  alone,  gazing  at  the 
roses  which  she  had  brought  up  from  Ladysrood  in  their  bask- 
ets of  moss,  and  thinking  with  a pang  of  how  the  sun  was 
slanting  westward  over  the  moors  and  the  sands  of  Christslea, 
and  the  little  birds  were  flying  amongst  the  ripening  apples, 
and  the  fisherboys  were  rowing  over  the  pleasant  sea,  and  all 
the  balmy  air  was  blowing  mild  and  glad  through  the  tossing 
lilacs  and  the  bushes  of  homely  southernwood. 

If  only  she  had  never  left  these  ! How  much  happier  she 
would  have  been,  let  her  father  say  what  he  might ! 

She  sighed  wearily  as  she  breathed  the  heavy  London  air: 
heavy  even  here,  where  all  that  artificial  and  natural  fragrance 
could  do  to  sweeten  and  to  lighten  it  was  done.  This  beauti- 
ful boudoir,  with  its  walls  completely  lined  by  old  Saxe  china. 


180 


GTJ1LDEROY. 


its  ceiling  exquisitely  painted  with  flowers,  its  windows 
draped  with  lace  and  cream-colored  satin,  seemed  to  her  like  a 
prison  after  the  moorlands,  the  orchards,  and  the  shore.  The 
hearts  in  which  a deep  love  of  country  things  is  rooted  beat 
ill  at  ease  in  cities. 

And  yet  in  the  country  it  had  seemed  to  her  that  its  silence 
«md  its  sweetness  made  pain  harder  to  bear  than  when  thought 
was  muffled  and  stifled  under  the  noise  and  the  follies  of 
crowds. 

Poor  human  nature,  in  pain  and  anxiety,  is  like  a sick 
child  tossing  on  his  bed,  who  fancies  now  this  side  now  that 
will  give  most  rest,  and  finds  rest  on  neither  side  because 
there  is  no  rest  in  himself. 

She  had  not  been  alone  ten  minutes  before  the  servant 
announced  Lord  Aubrey. 

“ Well,  dear,  so  you  have  been  to  the  country  ? ” he  said, 
taking  her  hands  in  his  kindly  clasp.  “ It  is  the  best  medi- 
cine for  sick  souls,  only,  alas  ! we  never  have  time  to  take  it, 
or  we  dilute  it  so  with  a mixture  of  the  world  that  all  its  vir- 
tue goes  out  of  it ! How  is  your  father  ? ” 

“ He  is  as  well  as  he  ever  is,”  said  Gladys,  and  she  colored, 
for  she  remembered  what  her  father  had  said  of  Aubrey. 
“ He  said  the  same  as  you  did,”  she  added  after  a moment. 

“ I was  sure  that  he  would,”  answered  Aubrey.  “ Think  no 
more  of  it.  Try  and  enjoy  your  youth  while  you  can.  I 
have  not  been  enjoying  my  sober  manhood  at  all  at  Balmoral. 
We  had  five  feet  of  snow  on  midsummer  day.” 

And  he  told  her  stories  of  his  stay  there,  and  touched  on 
matters  of  foreign  policy  in  which  she  had  become  interested 
by  her  attendance  at  debates.  But  he  found  her  pensive  and 
preoccupied  ; she  was  troubled  between  her  natural  instinct 
of  confidence  in  him  and  the  remembrance  of  her  father’s 
warning  to  have  no  friend  amongst  his  sex. 

“Has  Mr.  Vernon  told  you  not  to  put  your  trust  in  me  ? ” 
asked  Aubrey,  sadly.  “ I thought  he  knew  me  better  than 
to  do  that.” 

“ No,  no;  he  did  not  tell  me  so,  indeed  ! He  knows  how 
noble  and  how  good  you  are,”  she  said  with  embarrassment. 
“But  he  said  that  a woman  should  not  have  any  friend  ex- 
cept her  husband — that  was  all ; and  that  it  was  I who  had 
done  wrong  in  complaining  to  you.” 

“But  when  her  husband  does  not  care  to  be  even  her 
friend,”  thought  Aubrey,  bitterly,  as  he  said  aloud  ; “ I think 


GUILDEROY. 


181 


your  father  is  quite  right  in  theory,  my  dear ; quite  right  as 
a general  rule.  But,  to  begin  with,  I am  Evelyn’s  cousin 
germain,  and  am  as  much  interested  as  you  are  in  his  honor 
and  happiness ; and,  in  the  second,  I am  neither  a young 
man  nor  a thoughtless  one.  Your  father  is  not,  unhappily, 
enough  with  you  to  be  your  adviser  in  the  world  ; and  I 
think  I may  so  far  try  to  supply  his  place  without  doing  or 
saying  anything  for  which  Evelyn  would  not  thank  me.” 

“ Oh,  what  should  I do  without  you  ! ” 

She  spoke  with  warmth  and  gratitude,  and  stretched  her 
hand  out  to  him  with  a childlike  gesture  of  confidence. 

“ You  would  do  very  well,  I daresay.  Do  not  make  me  too 
vain,”  said  Aubrey,  with  a kind  smile  as  he  took  her  hand 
and  held  it  for  a moment  only. 

Her  gesture  had  displaced  some  of  the  notes  and  cards  lying 
on  a little  table  at  her  side  ; they  fell  in  her  lap  ; as  she  took 
one  of  them  up  she  gave  a little  exclamation,  and  showed  the 
card  to  Aubrey.  On  it  was  the  double  crown  of  a duchess 
by  marriage  who  was  a princess  in  her  own  right,  and  under 
them  was  printed : — “Duchesse  Soria,  nee  Princesse  Bran- 
caleone.” 

“Ha!”  ejaculated  Aubrey,  off  his  guard  for  a moment. 
“ How  is  that  card  here  ? Do  you  know  her  ? ” 

“I  was  once  at  her  house  in  Venice.  I suppose  she  is  in 
London,  and  called  yesterday.  I shall  like  to  meet  her  again. 
I think  she  is  the  most  beautiful  woman  I ever  saw  in  all  my 
life.” 

“ She  is  certainly  very  handsome.” 

“But  we  never  saw  her  again,  as  we  left  Venice  the  next 
day,  and  I fancied  that  Evelyn  did  not  like  her.” 

“Did  you?  Why?” 

“ He  was  constrained  before  her ; and  he  seemed  angry 
that  I admired  her.” 

“Poor  little  innocent!”  thought  Aubrey.  “It  will  be 
something  more  trying  to  you  than  Olive  Shiffton  now.” 

“ Do  you  not  like  her  ? ” she  asked,  wondering  at  his 
silence. 

“Like  her?  Well,  yes.  She  is  very  beautiful,  as  you 
say,  and,  I believe,  she  is  a woman  of  originally  noble  char- 
acter if  she  had  been  generously  dealt  with  by  Fate.” 

“Is  she  unhappy,  too,  then  ?” 

“ Her  husband  was  not  worthy  of  her,  I believe ; and  I 
know  that  she  lost  a child  she  was  passionately  attached  to 


GUILBEUOY. 


1.82 

a few  years  ago.  But  I have  only  seen  her  in  the  world.  1 
have  no  intimacy  with  her.” 

“ It  was  very  kind  of  her  to  think  of  me,”  said  Gladys 
gratefully.  “ I did  admire  her  so  much ; I was  so  young 
and  so  shy ; I felt  so  foolish  before  her.” 

“ Well,  the  shyness  is  cured,”  said  Aubrey,  with  his  indo- 
lent, indulgent  smile.  “But  the  youth  is  not  quite  over  as 
yet,  is  it  ? ” 

“ I feel  very  old,”  she  said  with  a sigh. 

He  laughed ; he  did  not  wish  to  refer  seriously  to  his  last 
interview  with  her;  and  he  foresaw  for  her  trials  much 
graver  than  any  which  she  had  passed  through  as  yet. 

A few  minutes  later  Guilderoy  entered  the  little  room.  He 
was  looking  animated  and  interested.  He  greeted  his  wife 
with  graceful  courtesy,  if  with  little  warmth,  and  asked,  with 
much  more  genuine  feeling,  of  Vernon’s  health.  Gladys 
was  touched  by  his  tone  and  pleased  by  his  entrance ; it  was 
so  very  rarely  that  ever  he  came  there. 

“Perhaps  it  is  as  my  father  says — a great  deal  fancy  and 
a great  deal  my  fault,”  she  thought. 

Aubrey  soon  rose  and  left  them  together.  He  felt  an 
irritation  which  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  display. 

“ He  is  only  so  kind,”  he  thought,  “ because  he  wants  her 
to  receive  Beatrice  Soria.” 

In  truth,  scarcely  had  the  door  closed  on  him  than  Guil- 
deroy took  up  the  card  with  the  double  crown. 

“ The  lady  you  admired  so  much  in  Venice  is  here,”  he 
said.  “ I asked  her  to  leave  this  on  you  yesterday.  Return 
her  call  to-morrow.  Show  her  every  deference.” 

There  was  a sound  of  embarrassment  in  his  voice,  but  she 
did  not  notice  it.  She  promised  willingly  what  he  wished. 

“ I thought  in  Venice  that  you  did  not  like  her,”  she  said 
to  him,  “and  I admired  her  so  greatly.  You  have  never 
seen  her  since  then,  of  course  ? ” 

“ Why,  c of  course  ’ ? ” he  replied,  impatiently. 

“Because  you  would  have  said  so,”  she  answered  in  her 
simplicity. 

“ I have  seen  her  once  or  twice  in  Paris,”  said  Guilderoy, 
with  some  constraint.  “ You  know  she  has  been  en  retraite, 
Soria  was  killed  by  another  Neapolitan,  two  years  ago,  in  & 
duel.” 

“ And  how  came  you  to  see  her  yesterday  ? ” 

“ I met  her  in  the  park,” 


GTJILDEBOY 


183 


This  was  all  true  to  the  letter,  hut  not  to  the  spirit. 
Gladys,  however,  was  not  at  that  moment  critical.  She  was 
endeavoring  with  all  her  strength  to  he  agreeable  and  pliant 
to  him,  as  her  father  had  counselled  her  to  be. 

That  night  she  saw  the  Duchess  Soria  at  a ball  at  Marl- 
borough House.  They  renewed  their  acquaintance  with  a 
pleasure  quite  genuine  on  the  one  side,  if  only  graciously 
simulated  on  the  other. 

“ What  did  I tell  you  ? ” said  Lady  Sunbury  to  her  cousin 
Ermyntrude  as  Madame  Soria,  in  all  the  blaze  of  her  historic 
diamonds,  passed  them  with  her  royal  host. 

That  night  Gladys  was  consoled  to  see  that  her  husband 
scarcely  approached  Olive  Shiffton,  who  was  present,  and  who 
looked  very  pretty  and  a little  angered,  disquieted  by  the 
rising  of  this  great  planet  from  the  south. 

“ Perhaps  he  is  tired  of  her ; or  perhaps  it  was  never  really 
anything,”  she  thought,  almost  reassured,  and  she  went 
home  at  dawn  and  went  to  sleep  almost  happily,  dreaming 
of  the  quiet  waters  of  the  bay  by  Christslea  and  the  sound  of 
the  fishermens  voices  as  they  pulled  up  their  cobbles  on  the 
beach. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

“ It  was  not  true  certainly,”  she  said  to  Aubrey,  a week 
later.  “You  see  he  never  notices  her  now,  and  she  looks 
annoyed.  You  were  right  to  make  me  promise  to  say 
nothing.” 

Aubrey  looked  at  her  with  an  infinite  compassion  which  he 
could  not  reveal. 

“ It  is  always  best  to  say  nothing,  whatever  be  the  provo- 
cation,” he  answered.  “These  follies  pass.  They  are  be- 
neath notice  while  they  last.  They  are  butterflies  ; you  can- 
not break  them  seriously  on  the  wheel  of  jealousy  and  anger.” 

“ They  are  poisonous  butterflies,”  said  Gladys,  with  a sad 
smile.  “ And  you  know  the  butterfly  in  one  stage  of  its  life 
devours  roses  and  lays  gardens  waste.” 

“ I know,”  said  Aubrey.  “ But  other  roses  come,  and  the 
garden  grows  green  again  some  time  or  another.” 


184 


GUILD  EBOT. 


“ Not  always/’  she  answered. 

“No,  not  always,  I admit.” 

He  was  a man  who  believed  in  great  passions  and  great 
sorrows.  He  knew  that  most  passions  and  most  sorrows  pass, 
because  most  characters  are  shallow ; but  he  knew  that  there 
were  exceptional  natures,  and  that  these  could  never  easily 
find  either  consolation  or  oblivion.  For  _ these  few  in  the 
garden  of  life,  the  roses  once  dead,  few  flowers  have  frag- 
rance. 

Olive  Shiffton  had  been  a mere  caprice,  a mere  episode ; 
but  such  caprices  and  such  episodes  would  be  repeated  ad 
infinitum  in  his  cousin’s  existence.  How  was  it  possible  to 
reconcile  Gladys  to  this,  or  even  to  prepare  her  for  it  ? How 
was  it  possible  even  to  hint  to  her  that  the  cessation  of  this 
offence  to  her  was  due  to  the  presence  of  another  woman 
whose  influence  was  higher,  finer,  nobler,  but  infinitely  more 
to  be  dreaded  ? Of  Olive  Shiffton,  and  of  all  of  those  whom 
she  resembled  and  represented,  Guilderoy  was  certain  to  grow 
fatigued  and  intolerant  with  time ; but  if  Beatrice  Soria 
obtained  her  power  over  him  again  it  would  be  for  long, 
perchance  for  life. 

But  it  would  have  been  of  no  use  to  suggest  any  danger  of 
this  sort,  even  if  his  delicacy  and  honor  had  permitted  him  to 
do  so.  Fate  is  cruel  and  contradictory  enough  at  all  times, 
he  knew  ; but  it  is  often  better  to  let  her  alone  to  do  her  worst 
than  it  is  to  meddle  with  what  is  vague  to  us  and  will  surely 
escape  us  in  our  ignorant  handling  of  it. 

With  that  peculiar  self-deception  which  is  so  common  even 
in  persons  of  the  quickest  perceptions  and  intentions,  Guilde- 
roy never  supposed  that  his  marriage  appeared  otherwise  than 
most  harmonious  to  the  world.  He  indeed  often  went  out  of 
his  way  to  do  things  which  should  show  that  it  was  so.  In 
his  heart  he  repented  it  every  hour  that  he  thought  about  it 
at.  all,  but  it  would  have  been  intolerable  to  him  to  think  that 
his  acquaintance  ever  suspected  that  he  did  so.  When 
Olive  Shiffton  had  once  ventured  a jest  about  it,  relying  on 
her  privilege  of  intimacy,  he  had  silenced  her  in  a tone  which 
it  was  impossible  for  her  to  mistake.  If  he  had  adored  his 
wife  he  could  not  have  been  more  reverential  to  her  name 
before  others  than  he  was. 

“ Sometimes  I think  he  is  fond  of  her  after  all,”  said 
Ermyntrude  Longleat  to  her  brother,  on  hearing  the  story  of 
his  rebuff  to  Mrs,  Shiffton  as  it  went  the  round  of  society. 


GUILDEROY. 


185 


“ No ; he  is  not  fond  of  her , not  in  the  least,”  replied  Au- 
brey. “ But  he  has  that  sentiment  that  his  wife  is  a part  of 
his  own  dignity,  of  his  own  hono»r,  which  so  long  survives  all 
attachment,  and  exists  even  where  no  attachment  ever  was, 
because  it  is  a form  of  personal  vanitjr.  He  may  slight  her 
himself,  but  he  will  let  no  one  else  slight  her ; that  is  not  a 
matter  of  the  affections,  but  of  amour  propre  and  of  family 
pride.  It  is  the  same  kind  of  sentiment  which  he  has  for 
Ladysrood,  though  Ladysrood  se  bores  him  to  extinction. 

“ He  deserves  to  lose  both  Ladysrood  and  his  wife.” 

“ Ah,  my  dear  ! if  we  had  all  only  what  we  deserve  we 
should  be  most  olus  very  ill  off ! ” 

The  season  went  on  its  course  and  closed  without  her  be- 
ing rudely  awakened  from  this  last  illusion.  Many  saw  in- 
deed what  an  utter  illusion  it  was,  but  no  one  had  brutality 
enough  to  rouse  her  from  it,  and  show  her  how  utterly  she 
was  self-deceived. 

She  only  saw  that  Guilderoy  had  grown  wholly  indifferent 
to  the  seductions  of  Olive  Shiffton,  and  was  now  never  seen 
beside  her.  It  was  not  sufficient  to  make  her  happy,  but  it 
relieved  her  from  her  keenest  and  most  harassing  anxiety, 
and  she  never  dreamed  that  it  was  the  presence  of  another 
woman,  and  not  any  mercifulness  to  herself,  which  made 
Guilderoy  almost  rudely  neglect  and  ignore  his  late  cliar- 
meuse. 

One  glance  of  inquiring  scorn  from  the  lustrous  eyes  of. 
Beatrice  Soria,  as  they  had  passed  slowly  in  review  the  at- 
tractions and  the  pretensions  of  Olive  Shiffton,  had  been 
enough  to  make  him  feel  ashamed  of  ever  having  felt  the 
sorcery  of  those  inferior  and  venal  charms.  He  had  no  emo- 
tion so  keen  as  the  dread  least  any  gossip  of  the  town  should 
reveal  to  the  Duchess  Soria  the  frivolous  story  of  his  latest 
intrigue.  His  feeling  for  the  colonial  adventuress  had  been 
so  entirely  awakened  by  physical  attractions,  had  been  so 
absolutely  void  of  any  kind  of  higher  feeling,  or  any  shadow 
of  esteem,  that  it  became  very  rapidly  distaste  or  dislike  the 
moment  that  he  felt  that  it  might  imperil  for  him  the  regard 
and  impatience  of  the  only  woman  he  had  ever  loved. 

For  he  knew  now  that  Beatrice  Soria  held  a place  in  his 
passions  and  emotions  that  no  other  woman  had  ever  reached. 
She  was  lost  to  him,  or  he  believed  her  lost  to  him,  through 
his  own  fault,  his  own  levity ; but  for  that  very  reason  his 
whole  soul  turned  to  her  the  sunflower  to  the  sun  that  sets. 


186 


GUILDEROY . 


He  had  met  her  often  since  the  evening  in  Venice;  hut 
though  he  had  been  frankly  admitted  to  her  presence,  and 
treated  with  friendship  and  kindness,  he  had  never  as  yet 
been  able  to  pass  those  outer  courts  ; he  had  never  been  able 
to  recover  any  one  of  the  forfeited  privileges  of  the  past ; he 
had  never  been  able  to  tell  whether  she  loved  him,  hated  him, 
or  was  wholly  indifferent  to  him.  All  that  he  could  see  was 
that,  to  all  appearance,  no  one  had  succeeded  him  in  her 
affections.  The  world  coupled  no  one’s  name  with  hers, 
and  there  was  no  one  of  her  large  circle  who  could  in  any 
way  claim  any  distinction  above  the  rest.  That  was  all 
which  he  had  been  able  to  ascertain  or  to  divine  when  he 
had  been  in  society  in  Paris  or  in  Italy  ; it  was  all  he  could 
tell  now  that  she  was  in  his  own  English  world  of  fashion, 
and  renewed  her  acquaintance  with  him  and  with  his  wife 
with  all  the  pleasant  welcome  due  to  bonnes  connaissances 
in  society. 

The  mystery,  and  what  was  to  him  the  mortification,  of  his 
ignorance  of  the  feeling  of  a woman  who  had  been  once  as 
wax  to  his  hands  and  as  flame  to  his  passions,  occupied  him 
and  attracted  him  to  the  exclusion  of  almost  every  other 
thought. 

He  had  not  known  what  he  had  felt  when  he  had  heard  of 
the  death  of  Hugo  Soria,  in  a duel  with  another  Neapolitan. 
He  could  not  still  be  sure  whether  he  felt  regret  at  his  pow- 
erlessness to  replace  him,  or  relief  that  it  had  been  made  im- 
possible that  he  should  do  so.  He  was  conscious  that  it  must 
increase  tenfold  liis  own  offence  against  the  survivor.  Who 
could  ever  have  foreseen  so  premature  a death,  for  a man 
young,  fortunate,  and  singularly  skilled  in  all  arts  of  attack 
and  defence  ? To  him  it  had  always  seemed  probable  that 
Soria  would  long  outlive  himself. 

He  had  seen  nothing  of  her  since  her  husband’s  tragic  end; 
two  years  had  gone  by,  and  it  was  understood  that  she  was 
adhering  to  the  strictest  rules  of  mourning  and  retreat.  Ru- 
mor said  also,  that  she  had  received  a severe  shock,  when  in 
the  gay,  roseate  sunshine  of  Naples,  after  a ball,  the  dead  body 
of  Soria,  with  a blood-stained  cloak  thrown  over  his  face,  had 
been  carried  into  her  presence  by  the  masqued  bearers  of  a 
religious  fraternity.  She  had  known  nothing  of  the  duel,  and 
was  crossing  the  vestibule  to  go  to  her  own  apartments  when 
the  terrible  procession  came  in  sight  across  the  sunlight  of 
the  marble  colonnade.  Guilderov  could  see  the  scene  aa 


GUILDEROY. 


187 


though  he  had  been  present  at  it  ; the  marble  arches  of  the 
loggia,  with  the  blue  sea  and  the  blue  sky  shining  beyond 
them,  the  warm  rose-hued  light  of  sunrise  streaming  in  from 
the  gardens,  and,  glowing  in  the  warmth,  the  figure  of  her  in 
her  ball-dress  and  her  jewels,  pausing  in  the  fascination  of 
terror  as  the  black-robed  bearers  approached  with  their  bur- 
den ; he  could  see  it  all  as  though  he  had  been  there  ; he 
never  thought  of  it  without  a shudder,  and  he  strove  to  think 
of  it  as  little  as  he  could. 

Two  years  had  gone  by  since  that  time,  and  she  had  re- 
turned to  the  world.  He  had  seen  her  twice  or  thrice,  and 
had  found  her  more  beautiful  than  she  had  ever  been.  If  her 
thoughts  reproached  him  for  his  marriage,  her  lips  never 

did. 

“ We  will  not  speak  of  Hugo,”  she  had  said  to  him  when 
he  first  met  her  and  strove  to  say  something,  he  knew  not 
what,  of  conventional  regret.  But  those  were  the  only  words 
of  the  least  familiarity  which  ever  escaped  her  towards  him, 
and  whether  she  forgave  his  own  faithlessness  to  her,  or 
whether  she  resented  it  too  deeply  for  words,  he  with  all  his 
penetration  into  the  souls  of  women,  could  not  tell.  Anyhow 
Soria  was  dead,  and  she  was  once  more  free  : with  her  im- 
mense personal  fortune,  her  marvellous  charm,  her  great  so- 
cial reputation,  and  her  irresistible  power  over  men  ; could 
now  be  wooed,  possibly  won,  by  every  living  man  except  him- 
self. 

When  he  recalled  the  words  of  his  letter  of  farewell,  his 
cheeks  grew  red  with  shame  ; what  could  such  a woman  as  she 
have  thought  of  him  when  he  had  abandoned  her  like  any 
courtezan,  hired  and  dismissed  ? Perhaps  she  had  despised 
him  too  absolutely  even  to  honor  him  by  resentment.  He 
could  not  tell.  Her  manner  to  him  remained  wholly  what  it 
had  been  in  the  Palazzo  Contarini  ; within  view  of  their  past 
relations,  such  a manner  could  be  but  a cloak  : but  whether 
what  it  covered  were  tenderness  or  hatred,  reproach  or  offence 
too  indelible  for  reproach,  he  could  not  tell  ; only  he  knew 
that  with  her  it  could  not  be  indifference,  that  was  wholly 
impossible  to  her  whole  character. 

What  motive  had  brought  her  to  England  ? True,  she  was 
a great  lady  allied  by  friendship  and  even  by  blood  with 
many  English  families,  but  he  felt  that  she  did  not  come  to 
his  country  without  some  intention  ^personally  touching 
himself. 


188 


GUILDEROY. 


They  were  in  the  same  world  ; they  must  meet  again  and 
again  even  if  neither  sought  to  meet  ; he  could  not  credit 
that  it  was  either  mere  caprice  or  mere  accident  which  had 
brought  her  to  grace  the  last  weeks  of  the  London  season  with 
her  courted  presence. 

He  had  gone  to  pay  her  homage,  he  had  been  admitted 
with  many  others,  he  had  had  no  word  or  glance  which  dis- 
tinguished him  from  her  other  acquaintance  ; but  he  had 
felt  the  old  thrill  which  her  voice  awakened  in  him,  he  was 
conscious  of  the  old  delirious  charm  with  which  she  moved 
him,  and  life  became  for  him  filled  once  more  with  romantic 
and  agitated  interest. 

“ She  is  the  only  woman  whom  I ever  loved,”  he  had 
thought  as  he  left  her  that  day. 

He  wished  his  right  hand  had  been  cut  off  before  it  could 
have  ever  written  that  brutal  and  ineffaceable  letter  of  adieu. 
And  being  a man  of  the  world,  he  had  said  to  his  wife  on  his 
return,  uCall  on  the  Duchess  Soria ; show  her  every  defer- 
ence.” 

That  in  wishing  her  to  go  there  he  was  transgressing 
against  those  unwritten  rules  of  custom  and  social  habits  by 
which  men  of  the  world  are  more  often  governed  than  by  any 
laws,  social  or  moral,  he  knew  well  enough,  but  it  did  not 
affect  him.  His  mind  and  his  feelings  were  so  centered  for 
the  time  on  the  woman  whom  he  had  lost,  that  he  was  in- 
sensible to  any  other  sentiment*.  To  have  Beatrice  Soria  once 
more  beside  him  in  the  rose  gardens  of  Ladysrood  as  in  the 
years  gone  by,  he  would  have  sacrificed  much ; at  times  he 
thought  that  he  would  sacrifice  anything.  There,  at  last,  he 
could  find  some  occasion  to  learn  whether  he  were,  or  not, 
wholly  exiled  from  that  soul  in  which  he  had  once  reigned 
alone.  To  believe,  as  he  was  forced  to  believe,  that  she  had 
grown  wholly  indifferent  to  him  was  the  first  humiliation  in 
matters  of  the  heart  which  he  had  ever  suffered.  He  knew 
that  he  had  deserved  his  fate,  and  had  brought  it  on  himself; 
but  this  knowledge  only  increased  the  bitterness  of  his  morti- 
fication, and  the  keenness  of  his  anxiety  to  penetrate  the 
mystery  of  her  feeling  towards  him. 

“ What  does  she  think  of  me  ? ” was  the  wonder  incessant- 
ly recurrent  to  his  thoughts.  She  baffled  all  his  desires  to 
learn  as  effectually  as  she  had  done  in  Venice.  Ever  since 
he  had  written  that  fateful  letter  in  the  library  at  Ladysrood 
he  had  never  heard,  or  received  from  her,  one  syllable  beyond 


GU1LDER0Y.  . 189 

the  serene  and  colorless  phrases  of  an  ordinary  social  inti- 
macy. 

The  memory  of  his  whole  relations  with  her  might  have 
faded  out  into  absolute  oblivion  for  any  trace  that  she  gave 
of  seeing  in  him  anything  beyond  any  other  of  the  many  ac- 
quaintances and  admirers  who  flocked  to  greet  her  on  her 
arrival  in  London. 

He  seemed  forgotten  as  utterly  as  no  doubt  Hugo  Soria 
was  forgotten,  lying  in  the  mausoleum  amongst  the  roses  and 
cypresses  at  Sorrento. 

Meanwhile  to  his  wife  he  was  kind.  He  was  grateful  to 
her  for  her  sincere  and  frankly  expressed  admiration  of  her 
great  rival,  and  he  was  touched,  even  whilst  he  betrayed  them, 
by  the  unconsciousness  and  confidence  which  she  showed. 
After  all,  perhaps,  she  was  becoming  facile,  he  thought ; 
after  all  she  had  certainly  many  lovely  qualities. 

Curiously  enough  the  influences  which  most  drew  his  feel- 
ings away  from  her  yet  made  him  so  far  sensible  of  her  mer- 
its that  he  saw  more  of  her  and  spoke  more  to  her  than  he 
had  done  for  months  ; and  she,  attributing  the  change  in  him 
to  his  rupture  with  Olive  Shifft'on,  was  both  unsuspicious  and 
almost  happy.  Perhaps,  after  all,  she  thought,  her  father 
was  right;  and  the  silent  patience  and  constancy  of  absolute 
devotion  might  have  power  over  him  at  the  last. 

Aubrey,  of  course,  saw  her  pathetic  error ; but  though  his 
pity  for  it  wrung  his  own  heart,  he  was  too  loyal  to  his  cousin 
and  too  merciful  to  her  to  breathe  any  hint  which  could 
suggest  to  her  the  truth.  There  was  nothing  in  the  manner 
of  Beatrice  Soria  to  hint  it  to  her.  She  had  been  always  too 
great  a lady  to  tolerate  the  coarseness  of  the  exhibition  of 
passion  in  society,  and  even  at  the  time  when  Guilderoy’s 
power  over  her  had  been  strongest,  she  had  never  chosen  that 
the  world  should  be  able  to  read  their  secret  in  their  public 
attitude.  She  left  such  vulgarities  to  such  women  as  Olive 
Shiffton,  less  certain  of  their  influence  and  more  eager  to  dis- 
play their  dominion  than  was  she.  “ When  you  are  sure 
yourself,  what  matters  who  doubts  ? ” She  thought  now  ; 
she  was  herself  wholty  conscious  that  Guilderoy  would  obey 
her  slightest  sign  whenever  she  chose  to  make  one,  as  the 
hawk  obeys  the  cry  of  the  falconer.  She  was  in  no  haste  to 
make  it.  She  had  been  deserted,  humiliated,  betrayed  ; she 
was  not  yet  certain  whether  she  hated  him  or  forgave  him. 

“ Time  will  tell  me,”  she  thought,  with  that  strange  cold- 


190 


QUILDEBOY. 


ness  of  patience  which  runs  side  by  side  with  the  fervors  and 
ardors  of  the  passions  in  all  blood  of  southern  races. 

Meantime  she  called  all  her  wit,  intelligence,  and  beauty  to 
her  aid,  and  obtained  with  them  so  great  a success  in  this 
English  world  of  his  that  all  which  the  consciousness  of 
other  men’s  admiration  of  what  he  had  abandoned  could  add 
* to  his  regrets  was  added  to  stimulate  revived  desires.  No 
hand  could  “ throw  the  sulphur  ” with  more  perfect  skill  and 
sorcery  than  hers.  For  the  most  potent  of  all  her  charms 
was  that  beneath  all  the  bland  arts  of  seduction  and  all  the 
polished  powers  of  a woman  of  the  world,  there  were  the  rich- 
ness and  the  warmth  and  the  unwise  impulses  of  the  heart 
still  living  and  beating,  if  anyone  had  power  to  make  them 
live  and  beat  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

One  day  Aubrey  found  himself  alone  beside  Beatrice  Soria 
at  a garden  party  at  Sion  House.  They  had  walked  on  to- 
gether under  the  trees,  until  no  one  was  close  to  them  and 
the  river  was  before  them. 

“We  see  you  so  seldom  in  this  idle  world,  Lord  Aubrey,” 
she  said  in  her  beautiful  and  mellowed  English. 

“ Public  life  is  a hard  mistress,”  replied  Aubrey.  “ She 
is  always  saying  of  one  in  her  jealousy : — 

Quod  si  forte  alios  jam  nunc  suspirat  amores, 

Tun,  precor,  indos,  sancte,  relinque  focos.’ 

“ She  is  more  unreasonable,  then,  than  other  women  are  in 
our  day,  whatever  they  were  in  Tibullus’s,”  said  the  Duchess 
Soria.  She  was  herself  fond  of  the  classics,  and  learned  in 
them,  like  Tullia  Arragona  and  Vittoria  Colonna.  “ You  have 
no  good  metrical  translation  of  the  Elegies  or  the  Songs  in 
English,  have  you  ? ” 

“ Alas,  no,”  said  Aubrey.  “ I often  wonder  they  have 
tempted  no  poet.  John  Vernon,  though  no  poet,  has  made,  I 
think,  versions  of  a few.” 

“ Who  is  John  Vernon  ? Ah,  to  be  sure,  I remember.  He 
is  a great  scholar  and  very  charming,  is  he  not  ?” 


GUILDEROr. 


191 


u I think  you  would  like  him.  He  is  not  of  our  time.  He 
reminds  one  of  those  studious  and  lettered  gentlemen  who 
lived  in  the  quiet  of  the  country  in  the  days  of  the  Georges, 
and  were  content  as  none  of  us  contrive  to  be  content.  How 
do  you  like  his  daughter  ? ” 

“ Lady  Guilderoy  ? ” 

u Yes ; Gladys,  as  we  call  her.  What  do  you  think  of  her  ? ” 
The  Duchess  Soria  answered  with  bland  praise.  She  was 
a mistress  in  that  delicate  art ; she  never  said  too  much,  but 
the  little  she  said  was  sweet  as  the  south  wind  and  never 
commonplace.  In  a few  slight  sentences  she  showed  Aubrey 
that  she  saw  the  character  of  Guilderoy’s  wife  with  perfect 
justice  and  accuracy. 

“ Perhaps  she  is  a little  too  grave  for  her  years.  Men  are 
not  fond  of  gravity,  though  it  is  a quality  so  safe,”  she  added 
with  a smile. 

u I do  not  think  she  is  by  nature  grave,”  said  Aubrey. 
u The  world  oppresses  her.  There  are  natures  which  suffer 
in  it ; suffer  from  its  banalite , its  artifices,  its  intrigue,  its 
necessities  for  dissimulation.” 

“ Perhaps,”  said  his  companion.  “ But  when  the  world  is 
always  with  us  it  is  better  to  be  interested  in  it.  Like  whist, 
it  will  amuse  our  old  age  when  our  passions  are  mere  pall- 
bearers of  a corpse.” 

“ But  there  are  those  who  can  never  feel  that  interest. 
She  is  one  of  them.  What  is  she  to  do  ? ” 

<e  She  is  in  love  with  her  husband,”  said  Beatrice  Soria-, 

with  a delicate  intonation  of  scorn.  “ When  that  passes ” 

u It  will  not  pass.” 
u Oh,  my  dear  lord ! ” 

“ I am  convinced  that  it  will  not.” 

“ You  are  very  cruel  to  him.  He  will  not  be  grateful.” 

“ No,  he  will  not,  unless ” Aubrey  paused  and  turned 

to  her  with  a look  which  said  more  than  his  words — “ unless 
you,  Duchess,  who  have  more  influence  over  him  than  any 
one,  would  tell  him  that  it  should  be  so.” 

“ I ! ” The  word  was  a haughty  refusal  in  itself. 

“ You  disappoint  me,”  murmured  Aubrey.  (i  You  have  so 
much  power,  if  you  would  only  have  as  much  mercy.” 

“ My  dear  lord,  that  is  not  my  role . One  cannot  preach 
what  one  has  never  practised  ; one  cannot  advocate  what  one 
does  not  believe  in.  I have  no  belief  in  conjugal  happiness. 
I believe  in  the  joys  of  the  passions,  I believe  in  the  pleas 


192 


GUILDEROY. 


ures  of  vanity,  I believe  in  the  consolation  of  children,  and 
I believe — perhaps — in  the  sweetness  of  vengeance.  But  in 
these  alone.  Lady  Guilderoy  will,  no  doubt,  have  all  these 
consolations  and  pleasures.  If  she  require  her  husband’s 
fidelity  also  she  will  be  disappointed.  Ho  doubt  she  will  be 
at  first  disappointed  very  much.  But  she  will  also  no  doubt 
find  out  qv! on  pent  s’ en  passer” 

“ You  are  cruel  to  her,”  said  Aubrey,  with  a sigh. 

“ My  dear  lord,”  said  Beatrice  Soria,  u men  wish  women  to 
behave  to  them  with  sultry  heat  of  passion  when  they  wTant 
passion,  and  with  perfect  absence  of  passion  when  they  have 
ceased  to  want  it.  They  require  the  tropics  one  hour,  the 
poles  the  next.  They  want  fire  out  of  ice  ; when  they  have 
effected  the  transformation  they  wish  the  fire  to  become  ice 
again.  How  men  are  not  gods  that  by  the  mere  exercise  of 
their  caprice  they  can  bring  about  these  changes.  On  the 
contrary,  they  ask  for  such  impossibilities  and  contradictions 
that  they  very  often  make  a woman  who  was  tender,  malle* 
able,  and  generous  before,  a very  devil,  because  they  have 
put  the  devil  of  pain  and  injustice  into  her.  Then  they  are 
exceedingly  surprised  at  the  issue  of  their  work,  and  if  the 
evil  they  have  created  out  of  good  hurts  them  themselves 
they  are  angry  and  cry  out,  for  they  are  children,  and  bad 
children  : spoilt,  selfish,  and  unkind,  never  to  be  trusted  out 
of  sight,  and  always  cruel  wherever  they  are  loved.” 

She  spoke  with  force  and  warmth  and  scorn.  Her  voice 
was  low,  but  in  the  mellow  and  thrilling  tones  of  it  there 
was  a concentration  of  all  the  indignity,  the  suffering,  the 
humiliation,  disdain  and  wrath  which  had  been  held  in 
silence  in  her  soul  ever  since  the  day  that  she  had  received 
Guilderoy. 

She  knew  that  he  was  aware  of  her  past  relations  with  his 
cousin.  Circumstances  had  made  him  their  confidant  in  the 
early  days  of  their  intimacy ; and  he  had  been  always  on  such 
terms  with  her  as  had  permitted  him  some  frank  expression 
of  his  thoughts.  But  here  he  felt  that  his  words  had  been 
wasted.  She  was  not  a woman  to  be  moved  by  entreaty  or 
suggestion  from  any  desire  or  intention  of  her  own. 

Aubrey  raised  his  hat  and  turned  away  as  others  ap* 
proached  and  occupied  her  attention. 

u Certainly  he  behaved  very  ill  to  her,”  he  thought ; and 
then  the  paucity  and  insufficiency  of  such  poor,  trite,  com* 
monplace  words  to  express  the  unutterable*  ineffaceable 


GUILDEROY, 


1 C:C\ 
I oO 

affront  which  Guilderoy  had  passed  upon  such  a woman  as 
she  was,  seemed  to  him  like  a renewed  insult  to  her.  Why 
should  she  show  any  clemency  ? None  had  been  shown  to 
her. 

And  yet  he  thought  one  might  move  her  still  by  her  heart 
if  one  dared  to  appeal  to  it.  But  he  felt  that  he  could  not 
presume  to  seek  to  learn  what  she  felt,  whether  of  hatred  or 
of  love,  to  the  man  by  whom  she  had  been  forsaken. 

That  the  wound  given  her  was  still  unhealed  he  knew  by 
the  profound  and  mingled  emotions  with  which  she  had 
spoken. 

Her  lover  had  killed  much  in  her  which  had  been  gener- 
ous, tender,  and  magnanimous.  He  had  inflicted  on  her  a 
wound  into  which  all  her  best  feelings  and  instincts  had 
sunk,  as  treasure  founders  in  a deep  sea.  If  he  suffered  in 
time  for  the  injury  he  had  done,  whose  fault  would  it  be  ? 
Not  hers,  surely. 

Beatrice  Soria  glanced  after  him  as  she  spoke  with  her 
other  acquaintances. 

“ A man  and  a gentleman,”  she  thought ; “ and  a true 
friend.  But  how  like  an  Englishman  to  have  no  better  way 
of  trying  to  gain  a point  than  to  ask  for  it.” 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

46  You  have  invited  Mme.  Soria  ? ” asked  Guilderoy,  look- 
ing over  his  wife’s  list  for  the  house  parties. 

“ I had  not  thought  of  it,”  said  Gladys.  “ Will  she  care 
to  come  ? 

“ I heard  her  express  a wish  to  see  the  English  vie  de 
chateau”  replied  Guilderoy.  “ Ask  her,  at  any  rate.  Ask 
her  in  person.  I am  sure  she  will  not  refuse  you.” 

u I will  try,”  said  Gladys. 

And  she  took  an  early  occasion  to  do  so  when  they  met  at 
the  last  Drawing-room  of  the  season.  Beatrice  Soria  did  not 
reply  for  a moment ; a faint  smile  came  on  her  beautiful 
mouth.  Gladys  wondered  of  what  she  was  thinking.  The 
next  moment  she  accepted  the  invitation  conditionally ; it 


194 


GUILDEROY , 


was  possible  she  would  not  be  in  England  ; if  she  were  she 
would  be  happy  to  come  to  Ladysrood  for  a day  or  two. 

“ I am  very  glad,55  said  Gladys  in  her  unconsciousness. 
“ Pray  do  not  forsake  England  so  soon.  Lord  Guilderoy  is 
so  very  anxious  that  you  should  honor  us  in  the  country.” 

“ Lord  Guilderoy  is  always  so  amiable/5  replied  the  Duch- 
ess Soria.  “ And  when  his  ambassadress  is  one  so  irresisti- 
ble as  his  wife,  his  wishes  are  always  certain  to  be  crowned 
with  success.55 

“ When  she  says  those  graceful  things  so  beautifully  does 
she  mean  them,  do  you  think  ? 55  asked  Gladys  when  she  re- 
counted the  result  of  her  mission  to  Guilderoy  on  her  return, 
from  Court  that  day. 

“ My  dear  child,55  said  Guildeoroy  with  impatience,  “ what 
a very  childlike  question  ! One  would  think,  you  were  on 
the  cliffs  at  Christslea  still ! Who  ever  does  mean  anything 
that  they  say  in  this  world  ? These  pretty  things  are  the 
mother-of-pearl  counters  with  which  one  plays  the  game, 
of  society;  who  has  the  most  of  them  wins  the  game.  Surely 
you  know  that  by  this  time.55 

u I should  be  sorry  to  think  it  was  only  that,55  she  sai  I 
wistfully.  “ I should  like  her  to  like  me.55 

“ Of  course,  she  does  like  you  ; she  has  told  me  so,55  said 
Guildeoroy  with  some  irritation.  “ People  would  always  like 
you  if  you  were  more  pliant,  more  amused,  more  good-natured. 
Oh,  I know  you  are  goodness  itself  to  all  your  poor  people, 
and  that  you  are  very  often  doing  very  kind  things  even  in 
society,  for  I hear  of  them.  But  that  is  not  the  amiability  I 
mean.  When  we  do  a favor,  nine  times  out  of  ten  we  make 
a foe  instead  of  a friend,  for  there  are  very  few  natures  which 
a sense  of  obligation  does  not  sour.  The  amiability  which 
is  successful  is  the  knack  of  saying  things  gracefully,  of  seem- 
ing interested  when  we  are  bored,  of  seeming  to  approve 
when  we  disapprove,  to  agree  when  we  disagree,  to  make  the 
most  uninteresting  stranger  believe  that  he  is  the  salt  of  the 
earth  to  us  : that  is  what  social  amiability  means,  and  you 
never  attempt  to  acquire  it.55 

“ It  is  hypocrisy,55  said  Gladys,  with  scorn  in  her  eyes. 
u It  is  nothing  of  the  kind.  Hypocrisy  intends  to  deceive. 
Social  amiability  knows  that  it  deceives  nobody — at  least  no- 
body who  has  any  knowledge  of  the  world — but  it  avoids 
friction,  it  polishes,  and  softens,  and  soothes ; it  gives  every- 
one a vague  sense  of  bien  etre}  and  diffuses  an  agreeable  at- 


GUILDEROY. 


195 


mostphere.  That  is  what  you  have  not,  and  I fear  never  will 
have.  You  are  tres  grande  dame  / that  I quite  grant ; but 
you  have  modelled  yourself  too  much  on  my  sister,  and  have 
imbibed  her  unfortunate  ideas  that  to  be  virtuous  and  truth- 
ful it  is  primarily  necessary  to  be  what  Sunbury  calls  infer- 
nally disagreeable.  It  is  not  my  language,  it  is  his ; and  I 
ought  to  apologise  for  quoting  it,  but  it  is  really  so  inimitably 
descriptive ! 99 

Gladys  colored  with  indignation.  She  knew  that  she  was 
wholly  and  utterly  unlike  Hilda  Sunbury  in  every  opinion 
and  quality  ; she  knew  that  in  comparing  her  to  his  sister 
he  compared  her  to  w;hat  he  considered  the  most  unsym- 
pathetic and  uncompanionable  of  her  sex ; she  knew  that 
she  had  just  been  doing  her  uttermost  to  please  him  and  to 
succeed  in  her  mission  to  the  Duchess  Soria ; and  she  felt 
unbearably  and  intolerably  wronged  by  the  injustice  of  his 
censures  and  the  contemptuous  impatience  of  his  tone. 

u I do  not  think  that  you  have  any  right  to  speak  to  me 
in  such  a manner  as  that,”  she  said  in  a voice  which  shook 
slightly  yet  was  very  firm.  “ I know  that  you  prefer  every 
other  woman  in  society  to  me,  but  your  indifference  should 
not  warp  you  into  injustice  and  discourtesy.  I knew  nothing 
of  the  world  when  I married  you ; I have  tried  to  learn 
all  that  I could,  and  the  lesson  is  hard,  or  I am  stupid.  I 
have  not  the  pliancy  and  the  facility  of  the  ladies  who  are 
your  friends,  but  I must  ask  you  to  remember  one  thing — it 
was  not  I who  ever  sought  you,  and  my  father  again  and 
again  in  vain  endeavored  to  dissuade  you  from  your  marriage 
with  me.” 

Before  he  had  recovered  from  his  astonishment  sufficiently 
to  answer  her  she  had  gathered  her  train  over  her  arm, 
bowed  to  him  and  left  him. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

He  had  been  silent  from  sheer  astonishment  at  the  passion- 
ate outburst  of  one  whom  he  had  always  considered  physically 
cold  and  mentally  unperceptive. 

It  was  a scene  : it  was  not  ftie  first  which  had  taken  place 
between  them,  but  it  was  the  most  embittered.  There  were 
words  in  it  which  stung  his  conscience,  and  there  were  other 


196 


guilderoT. 


words  which  awakened  his  anger.  His  very  sense  that  there 
was  a great  deal  of  justice  in  her  reproaches  made  them  the 
more  unwelcome  to  him.  He  had  thought  her  unimpassioned, 
he  had  even  lauded  and  been  glad  that  she  should  be  so ; and 
he  saw  for  the  first  time  that  deep  down  in  her  soul  under 
the  silence  of  pride  and  the  ignorance  of  habit  there  were 
strong  and  embittered  feelings. 

He  knew  women  and  the  world  too  intimately  not  to 
know  all  that  the  existence  of  this  feeling  might  mean  in 
time  for  himself.  He  was  a man  too  sensitive  to  the  world’s 
comments  and  too  intolerant  of  publicity  and  interference 
not  to  see  with  the  gravest  apprehension  the  possible  ap- 
proach to  him  of  his  wife’s  entrance  into  that  stage  of  sus- 
picion and  of  irritation  which  usually  precedes  and  produces 
an  exposure  to  the  world  of  disunion.  He  knew  that  he  had 
only  himself  to  blame  ; he  knew  that  a little  more  consider- 
ation for  her,  a little  more  demonstration  of  affection  on  his 
part  would  have  sufficed  to  shut  the  eyes  and  lull  the  soul  of 
so  young  a woman.  He  had  believed  her  cold ; he  had  let 
her  drift  away  from  him,  content  indeed  that  she  should  do 
so ; but  he  had  never  supposed  either  that  she  had  felt  his 
neglect  so  strongly  or  would  ever  express  her  sense  of  it  so 
openly.  The  mere  thought  of  a future  in  which  such  scenes 
were  possible  alarmed  him  beyond  words.  Of  all  things  he 
prized  peace,  freedom  and  apparent  harmony. 

t( When  once  they  are  jealous,”  he  thought  with  a shudder; 
the  shudder  of  a man  who  has  passed  through  a thousand 
scenes  of  invective  and  reproach  in  penalty  of  his  pleasures. 

Was  it  possible,  he  wondered,  that  she  was  jealous  of 
Beatrice  Soria  ? Had  anyone  told  her  the  story  of  his  past  ? 

With  the  yearning  remembrance  of  that  one  name  of  magic, 
he  left  his  house  and  went  where  he  often  went  at  this  hour. 
It  was  five  o’clock!  She  was  most  days  to  be  found  at  home 
then,  adhering  to  her  indolent  Italian  habit  of  never  leaving 
the  house  till  sunset. 

The  London  world  was  at  her  feet,  and  delighted  to  wait 
on  her.  All  that  was  choicest  in  it  had  received  her  gra- 
cious hospitality  in  her  own  residence  at  Naples  and  at  Paris, 
and  had  many  charming  memories  for  which  to  be  grateful 
of  moonlit-garden  fetes  at  the  beautiful  Soracte  villa,  and 
dinners  of  delightful  gaiety  and  wit  in  her  house  in  the 
Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne.  All  that  London  could  offer 
to  her— and  it  is  very  much  when  it  is  in  the  mood— it  offered 


0 (TILDE  ROY. 


19  r 

in  return.  The  staircase  of  her  hotel  was  as  thronged  as  the 
staircase  of  Buckingham  Palace  on  the  evening  of  a State 
ball. 

She  had  one  of  the  suite  of  rooms  which  are  given  to  royal 
persons;  she  had  had  them  filled  with  hothouse  plants  and 
flowers.  The  London  mists  and  rains  were  disgusting  things 
to  her ; she  strove  to  forget  them  as  well  as  she  could  in  the 
green  twilight  of  palm  leaves  and  the  delicate  glories  of 
orchidse. 

He  found  her  apartments  thronged ; it  was  known  that  she 
was  often  to  be  found  at  this  hour.  Princes  and  ministers, 
ambassadors  and  ambassadresses,  wits  and  elegantes  and 
dandies,  all  that  was  most  agreeable,  exalted,  and  exclusive 
in  English  society  were  there  to  do  her  homage.  He  was 
only  one  in  a crowd  of  great  people,  most  of  them  greater 
than  he.  He  remembered  with  a bitter  pang  the  time 
when,  for  his  sake  her  doors  had  been  closed  to  all  comers. 

“ Voildj  le  passe  de  la  duc7iesse,”  he  heard  a diplomatist 
smilingly  say  with  a glance  at  him  as  he  passed.  “ Qui  sera 
son  avenir  ? ” 

The  jest  made  him  irritated  and  mortified.  He  had  been 
her  past  indeed  ! — her  all  in  all,  her  one  exclusive  thought, 
her  dream,  her  empire,  her  heaven.  He  had  been  all  that, 
and  he  had  tired  of  being  it,  ingrate  that  he  was  ! Who 
would  be  as  much  to  her  in  future  ? Anyone  ? 

All  that  baser  quality  of  men’s  love  which  is  stimulated 
and  strengthened  by  the  spur  of  social  jealousies  and  the 
sight  of  social  successes  in  the  one  beloved,  all  that  element 
which  is  compounded  of  vanity,  emulation  and  admiration, 
increased  by  the  world’s  admiration,  all  moved  in  him,  inten- 
sified besides  by  the  state  of  anger  and  offence  against  his 
wife  in  which  he  had  come  thither.  Never,  in  the  earliest 
hours  of  his  adoration  for  her,  had  he  believed  himself  so 
passionately  the  lover  of  Beatrice  Soria  as  he  felt  that  he  wag 
now  capable  of  becoming.  And  she  had  nothing  in  return 
for  him  except  the  tcaich  of  a soft  cool  hand,  the  welcome  of 
a sweet  bland  smile,  the  wit  of  brilliant  and  polished  phrases, 
all  which  all  others  there  enjoyed ; all — and  no  more  than 
that.  Never  since  the  evening  when  he  had  seen  her  in  the 
Palazzo  Contarini  had  he  before  felt  so  passionately  all  that 
he  had  thrown  away  in  surrendering  of  his  own  free  will, 
his  right  to  the  first  place  in  her  presence  and  in  her 
thoughts. 


198 


GUllDEBOY ; 


He  had  thought  her  chain  too  closely  fastened  on  him, 
and  he  had  cast  it  off  in  a moment  of  impatience  and  fatigue; 
hut  now  he  felt  that  there  were  no  dust  and  ashes  of  humil- 
iation which  he  would  not  eat  if  he  could  only  by  them  once 
more  gain  the  right  to  kneel  at  her  feet  and  to  become  hers 
once  more.  He  arrived  with  the  crowd  and  he  was  dismissed 
with  it.  Never  once  in  all  the  times  that  they  had  met  had 
she  allowed  him  any  solitary  moment  with  her.  He  had 
surrendered  his  right  to  any;  he  had  to  learn  that  such 
right  could  not  be  resumed  at  will. 

Meanwhile,  no  sooner  had  his  wife  been  left  alone,  than 
she  had  grown  conscious  of  how  she  had  sinned  against  all 
her  promises  to  Aubrey  and  all  the  counsels  of  her  father.  She 
knew  that  she  had  lost  patience  at  the  very  moment  when  pa- 
tience would  perhaps  have  rewarded  her,  and  forgotten  both 
wisdom  and  prudence  in  the  more  selfish  pain  of  offended  pride. 

She  had  said  nothing  which  was  not  true ; but  there  are 
truths  which  must  never  be  uttered  if  union  and  the  peace  of 
the  future  are  desired.  The  very  force  and  indisputable  jus- 
tice of  such  truth  must  constitute,  she  knew,  the  heaviest  ac- 
cusation and  reproach  against  him.  She  had  set  a guard  over 
her  lips  through  so  many  trying  moments  only  to  fail  at  the 
first  word  which  had  mortified  her. 

With  the  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks  she  wrote  and 
confessed  her  fault  to  her  father. 

“ I am  nothing  to  him,  I know,”  she  wrote  ; u but  why 
must  he  so  often  tell  me  so  ? If  he  would  let  me  return  and 
live  with  you  I would  do  so,  and  would  not  complain.  But 
that  he  would  not  like,  because  it  would  compromise  him  be- 
fore the  world.” 

And  then  she  tore  the  letter  up,  and  did  not  send  it,  lest 
it  should  trouble  the  peace  of  the  solitary  of  Christslea. 

A little  later  she  had  to  repress,  as  best  as  she  could,  every- 
thing she  felt,  and  go  out  to  a great  dinner.  The  dinner  was 
followed  by  two  or  three  receptions,  at  which  she  had  to  be 
seen.  She  did  not  look  well ; she  was  very  pale,  and  her  eye- 
lids were  swollen. 

“ How  heavy  your  eyes  are,”  said  Aubrey,  meeting  her 
a moment  that  evening  in  the  crowd  of  a great  house.  “ Tell 
me  the  truth,  dear.  Has  anything  fresh  happened  ? ” 

“ Nothing  fresh,”  said  Gladys  bitterly,  “ only  what  I ought 
to  be  well  used  to ; what  will  never  alter  as  long  as  I live.” 

“ No  mortal  can  say  that,”  answered  Aubrey,  There 


GUILLEROY.  190 

nothing  really  hopeless  except  death.  Whilst  a person  we 
love  lives  we  should  always  deem  ourselves  happy.” 

“ I love  no  one,”  she  said,  in  a tone  which  was  almost 

sullen. 

“ It  is  worse  than  I thought  if  you  have  ceased  to  do  so,” 
he  said  gravely.  “ But  it  is  not  so.  You  deceive  yourself.” 

They  were  no  longer  alone,  and  he  had  no  answer,  nor 
could  he  tell  from  any  change  in  her  face  whether  she  had  been 
moved  at  all  by  his  words.  His  heart  ached  to  see  that  mask 
of  almost  sullen  indifference  and  apathy  worn  on  her  young 
features.  To  what  extremity  might  not  love  which  was 
deserted,  and  youth  which  was  unhappy,  be  driven,  half  in 
despair  and  half  for  sake  of  vengeance  ? He  would  not  point 
out  the  way  to  vengeance ; but  other  men  would.  Though  her 
apparent  coldness  and  her  contemptuous  inattention  to  them 
chilled  and  daunted  many  of  her  wooers,  yet  there  were  others 
whom  such  repulse  attracted.  She  lived  in  a society  and  in 
an  age  where  fidelity  is  ridiculed  or  received  with  incredulity, 
and  wherein  compensations  and  condonations  go  hand  in  hand, 
and  are  rarely  refused.  How  long  would  she  be  without  learn- 
ing the  lesson  which  everything  conspired  to  teach  her  ? She 
might  learn  it  soon,  she  might  learn  it  late;  but  learn  it  some 
time  or  other  she  would  assuredly.  Has  not  Ovid  said  that 
Helen,  being  left  alone,  was  innocent  of  any  fault  ? Selenen 
ego  crimine  solvo. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

The  essay  on  friendship  had  been  finished,  and  had  found 
its  way  into  print  in  a famous  review,  though  its  writer  de- 
clared it  a mere  spurious  and  worthless  offspring  of  the  Lysis. 
Guilderoy  had  on  more  than  one  occasion  amused  himself  with 
casting  his  thoughts  on  paper,  and  the  world  assured  him 
that  he  might  attain  eminence  in  letters  if  he  cared  to  do  so. 
But  he  considered  this  flattery ; and  even  had  it  been  true, 
he  would  have  considered  it  far  too  much  trouble  to  obey  its 
suggestion. 

\ Aubrey  read  the  essay  when  it  appeared,  and  approved 
of  it. 


200 


GUILDEROY. 


“ Only  allow  me  to  say,  my  dear  Evelyn,”  he  observed  one 
summer  day  at  Ladysrood,  when  they  were  alone  on  the  ter  > 
race,  “ that  it  is  odd  that  any  man  who  has  such  admifVble 
theories  as  yours,  should  go  so  utterly  against  them  as  yon 
do.  I know  no  living  person  who  is  so  little  heedful  of  the 
feelings  of  others,  or  so  little  constant  in  his  own  feeling?),  as 
yourself.  Pray  forgive  me  the  remark.  I am  no  doubt  l^ar- 
ing  good  manners  outside  the  temple  of  intimacy  in  pres  Mur- 
ing to  make  it.” 

u You  are  quite  welcome  to  make  it,  and  no  doubt  it  is  tiue 
enough,”  said  Guilderoy,  who  nevertheless  was  not  pleased. 
“ I see  how  things  ought  to  be  ; I do  not  pretend  to  make 
them  what  they  ought.  I do  not  think  that  I am  a false 
friend  as  you  imply  ■!  ” 

u I do  not  think  you  are  a friend  at  all,”  said  Aubrey. 
iC  You  do  not  care  about  men’s  friendship,  and  with  women 
you  have,  if  you  remark  them  at  all,  something  much  warmer 
than  friendship.  But  what  I meant  to  convey  is  that  de- 
spite your  admirable  knowledge  of  the  sensitiveness  of  the 
human  soul,  and  of  what  is  due  to  it  in  intimacy,  you  en- 
tirely neglect  observance  of  those  duties.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? ” said  Guilderoy,  a little  annoyed. 
u What  I say,”  replied  Aubrey.  “ You  know  the  duties 
of  a sympathetic  friend,  but  I fear  you  never  fulfil  them.” 
a We  are  not  bound  to  put  our  theories  into  practice.  If 
we  were,  authors  would  be  a race  apart — the  missing  link 
between  man  and  the  angels. 

“ Yes,  I suppose  no  writer  ever  did,  except  Socrates,  and 
he  got  poisoned  for  his  consistency.” 

“ And  he  was  not  a writer,  by  your  leave,  my  dear  scholar : 
only  a teacher.” 

“ True  ; but  really,  Evelyn,  your  theories  are  so  charming 
that  you  should  attempt  to  carry  them  out  in  your  own  life, 
and  perhaps  you  would  be  the  happier  for  doing  so ; egotism 
is  tempting,  but  it  is  not  always  so  happy  as  it  looks.” 

“ I am  not  more  of  an  egotist  than  most  men,”  said  Guilde 
roy,  moved  to  a certain  irritation.  Aubrey  raised  his  eye 
brows. 

In  what  way  am  I ? ” asked  Guilderoy  with  petulance. 
u Pray  let  us  speak  as  if  we  were  at  the  bottom  of  her  well 
with  Truth.” 

“ With  all  my  heart ; but  Truth,  like  most  ladies*  wijf 
probably  move  us  to  quarrel  about  her  ” 


&UILDEUOY. 


201 


H Oh  no,  pray  continue.” 

“ WeTl,  have  you  ever  lived  for  anybody,  except  yourself, 
in  your  life  ? ” 

“For  a little  while  I did,”  said  Guilderoy,  honestly  ; and 
he  sighed,  for  he  was  thinking  of  the  first  period  of  his  lova 
for  Beatrice  Soria. 

“ Oh,  no,  you  did  not  even  then,”  said  Aubrey,  who  knew 
what  the  sigh  and  the  answer  meant.  “ It  was  all  self-indul- 
gence, almost  all  love  is  ; at  least  when  it  is  victorious.” 

“ How  can  you  divorce  self  and  the  passions  ? v 
“ Not  easily,  I admit.” 

Aubrey  was  silent  a moment,  then  he  said  suddenly ; 

“ Will  you  allow  me  to  ask  you  one  thing  ? Do  you  think 
your  wife  is  happy  ? ” 

Guilderoy’s  face  flushed  slightly. 

“ She  is  not  of  a Aappy  disposition,”  he  said,  evasively. 
“ The  world  does  not  amuse  her.  Then  she  has  lost  two 
children  ; and  she  has  very  over-wrought  expectations.” 

“ Of  you  ? ” 

“ Of  me,  of  human  nature,  of  life  in  general.  Because  her 
father  has  the  virtues  of  a saint  and  a solitary,  she  expects 
every  man  to  be  a Saint  J erome  or  a Basil.” 

“Between  Jerome  and  Basil,  and  Lovelace  and  Wildair, 
there  is  considerable  room  for  something  else  ; they  are  at 
the  two  ends  of  the  ladder  of  human  desires.” 

“ She  sees  nothing  between  the  saint  and  the  profligate.” 
“ A woman  usually  only  sees  extremes.  But  I do  not  be- 
lieve she  knows  knows  anything  about  profligacy,  and  I 
think  you  could  easily  make  her  happy  if  you  chose.” 

“ My  dear  Aubrey ! ” cried  his  cousin  with  much  impa- 
tience. “If  there  is  a parrot  phrase  which  is  absolutely 
senseless,  it  is  that  about  making  a woman  happy.  She  is 
happy,  and  you  are  happy  in  her  happiness  and  your  own 
spontaneously,  sans  chercher  ni  vouloir , just  as  birds  are  in 
the  summer  woods,  or  there  is  no  happiness  at  all  for  either  of 
you.  Happiness  is  not  a kind  of  pastry  that  you  mix  and 
roll  out  and  put  in  the  oven  till  it  is  done  to  a turn.  It  is 
an  immense  pleasure,  born  out  of  heaven  knows  what,  half  of 
the  senses  and  half  of  the  soul,  but  no  more  to  be  stabled  or 
harnessed  than  Guido’s  coursers  that  run  with  Aurora. 
Happiness  elaborately  made  would  not  be  happiness ; it 
would  bear  the  traces  of  effort,  and  would  be  utterly  without 
charm.” 


m 


GUILDER  OY. 


“Nevertheless,  in  your  essay  you  admit  that  friendship  is 
a delicate  plant,  which  requires  a fitting  atmosphere  and  cul- 
ture ; so  also  is  love  surely  ; neither  will  resist  neglect.” 

“Are  you  speaking  of  love  ? I thought  you  were  speak- 
ing of  my  wife,”  said  Guilderoy,  in  that  tone  of  indolent  in- 
solence which  was  often  his  shield  when  he  did  not  choose  to 
be  questioned. 

Aubrey  rose  and  did  not  reply.  He  did  not  care  to  con- 
tinue the  argument  in  that  tone  ; and  he  feared  that  he 
should  say  too  much  if  he  said  anything  more. 

“Why  should  you  be  angry  ? ” said  Guilderoy.  “She 
might  be  if  she  were  here.  I assure  you  it  is  the  only  word  of 
disparagement  which  I have  ever  permitted  myself  about  her. 
She  is  exceedingly  handsome;  she  is  immaculately  good; 
and  she  is  the  daughter  of  the  man  I most  respect  upon 
earth.  But  all  these  excellent  things  do  not  make  up  happi- 
ness. Happiness  is  the  child  of  harmony,  who  the  Greeks 
tell  us  was  the  child  of  Eros.” 

Aubrey  remained  silent ; he  felt  more  anger  in  him  than 
he  wished  to  betray. 

“ You  should  have  married  her,  not  I,”  continued  his 
cousin.  “You  would  have  suited  her  most  admirably.  You 
would  have  buried  yourself  in  the  northern  mists  at  Balfrons, 
and  a Blue-book  would  have  occasionally  visited  you  as  your 
only  oiseau  bleu.” 

“ You  certainly  should  not  have  ever  married  at  all,”  said 
Aubrey,  who  did  not  care  for  those  jests.  “ Catullus  puts 
Eros  and  Hymen  in  the  same  strophe,  but  no  one  else  ever 
succeeded  in  doing  so.” 

“ And  he  did  not  do  it  in  practice,  only  in  verse,”  said 
Guilderoy. 

“ Hush,  she  is  coming  to  us,”  said  Aubrey,  as  he  saw  the 
tall  and  slender  form  of  the  mistress  of  Ladysrood  approach- 
ing the  terrace  on  which  they  were  sitting;  the  old  gray 
stone  terrace  of  the  west  front,  of  which  the  buttresses  and 
flights  of  steps  were  half  smothered  in  Virginia  creeper  and 
banksea. 

Guilderoy  rose,  and  with  that  graceful  courtesy  which  he 
never  neglected,  took  off  his  hat,  and  gave  her  his  seat, 
which  was  the  most  comfortable  of  all  the  lounging-chairs 
there.  He  stayed  a moment  or  two  speaking  of  trifles,  and 
then  went  away.  She  looked  after  him  wistfully.  She 


GUILDEROY . 203 

would  have  preferred  less  elaborate  courtesy,  and  more  of 
his  time. 

u I am  afraid  I have  disturbed  him,”  she  said  with  appre- 
hension. 

u Not  in  the  least ; we  were  just  going  away,”  said  Aubrey, 
hastily,  as  he  thought  : u Good  heavens  ! is  he  bored  if  he 
has  to  talk  to  her  for  ten  minutes  ? And  yet  if  she  were  any 
one  else’s  wife,  he  would  spend  whole  years  at  her  feet  I am 
certain.” 

For  that  one  August  day  he  was  alone  with  them.  On  the 
morrow  some  half-hundred  of  fashionable  people  were  to  ar- 
rive and  bring  their  London  and  Paris  life  into  the  green 
gardens  and  old  walls  of  Ladysrood,  which  always  seemed  to 
its  chatelaine  in  discord  with  them.  But  it  was  only  by  hav- 
ing the  world  with  him  there  that  Guilderoy  could  be  in- 
duced to  pass  some  of  the  late  summer  or  early  autumn 
months  at  home.  He  loved  the  place  in  his  own  way,  but 
life  in  it  wearied  him  more  since  his  marriage  than  it  had 
done  before,  when  he  had  been  able  to  bring  with  him  any 
questionable  preferences  of  the  moment  or  else  stay  there  in 
that  complete  solitude  which  at  rare  intervals  soothed  and 
pleased  him. 

Aubrey  looked  at  her  where  she  reclined  in  the  long,  low 
chair.  She  wore  a white  wool  gown  without  ornament  of 
any  sort.  Her  figure  was  still  very  slender,  but  her  bosom 
was  full,  and  her  arms  were  rounded,  her  shining  hair  hung 
in  loose  waves  over  her  forehead  and  was  coiled  behind  in 
heavy  masses  fastened  with  a gold  comb. 

How  strange  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  cousin  should  pass 
his  life  in  almost  absolute  indifference  to  her  ! The  vision 
which  Guilderoy  had  in  jest  put  before  him  of  a happiness 
which  might  have  been  possible  for  himself,  made  his  eyes 
dim  for  a moment  as  he  gazed  at  her.  But  he  quickly  ban- 
ished so  enervating  a fancy,  and  spoke  to  her. 

“ I wish,”  he  said,  with  hesitation,  u that  you  could  in- 
terest yourself  more  in  the  life  which  goes  on  around  you.  I 
know  you  do  not  care  for  it ; your  early  life  unfitted  you  for 
it ; but  it  would  be  well  if  you  could  simulate  some  enjoy- 
ment of  it ; you  would  become  more  popular  and  Evelyn 
would  be  better  pleased.” 

u Popular  ! ” she  repeated  with  the  accent  of  some  young 
duchess  of  the  eighteenth  century,  to  whom  some  one  should 
have  counselled  remembrance  of  the  mob* 


204 


GUILDEROT. 


“ I think  it  is  quite  disgraceful/*  she  added,  “ the  way  m 
which  all  society,  with  princes  at  its  head,  courts  popularity 
nowadays.  I should  never  have  supposed  you  would  have 
cared  for  it.** 

“ My  dear  child,  princes  feel  their  thrones  slipping  from 
under  them  ; they  catch  at  any  straw.  But  I did  not  mean 
popularity  for  you  in  any  low  sense  of  the  word.  I meant 
that  you  would  be  more  generally  liked,  and  so  more  able  to 
exercise  the  kind  of  influence  which  you  would  wish  to  pos- 
sess. When  society  is  aware  that  you  think  it  a flock  of 
geese,  it  revenges  itself  by  hissing  loudly  behind  your 
back.** 

a It  is  welcome  to  do  so.** 

“ Ah  ! that  tone  is  just  what  I oomplain  of ; it  is  too 
cynical,  it  is  too  unsj^mpathetic  ; you  are  too  young  to  use  it. 
When  the  worst  is  said  of  it,  there  remains  a great  deal  that 
is  interesting  and  profitable  to  study  in  society ; and  when 
you  know  that  Guilderoy  is  always  anxious  that  you  should 
be  admired  and  liked,  I do  not  consider  that  you  ought  to 
shut  yourself  up  in  a shell  of  apparent  ill-humor,  which  is 
not  really  in  any  way  your  nature.** 

“ I think  it  is  becoming  my  nature.’* 

“ God  forbid  ! I hope  you  will  soon  have  other  children 
with  whom  you  can  play  on  the  lawns  yonder,  and  be  a child 
again  yourself.  Then  you  will  forgive  society,  which  is 
after  all  only  a very  sick  and  froward  child  itself,  and  breaks 
all  its  playthings.** 

Her  face  clouded,  and  she  did  not  reply  ; her  brows  were 
drawn  together  in  a frown,  half  sullenness,  half  sadness,  as 
she  looked  out  from  under  her  long  curling  lashes  at  the 
green  woods  of  the  home-park  which  stretched  in  the  dis- 
tance as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 

“ You  see,**  she  said  at  last,  “ I can  never  amuse  him . He 
does  not  even  talk  to  me  if  he  can  help  it.  He  is  always 
amused  and  interested  with  other  women  ; never  with  me.** 

“Perhaps  you  exaggerate  that  fancy.” 

“Oh  no;  I felt  it  in  Venice  that  first  year.  I am  tiresome 
to  him.  No  one  can  alter  that.  It  is  a calamity ; nothing 
can  change  it.** 

“ It  is  not  an  uncommon  calamity  in  marriage.  Incessant 
association  is  so  often  fatal  to  attraction.  It  is  no  fault  or 
failure  in  either  very  often.  Simply  proximity  has  destroyed 
charm.  But  I knew*  dear,  this  sad  philosophy  can  be  no 


GUILDEROY. 


205 


comfort  to  you.  It  is  as  useless  for  consolation  as  the  cold 
physiological  demonstration  of  a surgeon  to  a mother  that  her 
dying  child  has  had  the  seeds  of  death  in  him  from  his 
birth.” 

“ Certainly,  it  does  not  console  me,”  she  said,  with  a bit- 
terness which  was  growing  upon  her  every  year  more  and 
more.  “ Physiology  and  philosophy  explain  everything  after 
their  own  fashion ; but  I never  see  that  they  make  anything 
any  better.” 

“No,”  said  Aubrey.  “Whether  we  are  suffering  from 
bodily  or  mental  pain  the  diagnosis  with  which  our  physi- 
cians interest  themselves  has  little  consolation  for  us,  espe- 
cially when  it  leaves  us  uncured  and  incurable.” 

“ Tell  me,”  she  said  abruptly.  “You  have  known  him  all 
his  life.  Is  there  any  woman  whom  he  really  loves  ? Some- 
times I think  there  is,” 

“ I hope  there  is — yourself.” 

She  made  a gesture  almost  of  anger.  “ Pray  do  not  fence 
with  me,  and  spare  me  these  fadeurs.  One  does  not  look 
for  them  from  you.  Answer  my  question.” 

“ I am  not  in  his  confidence,”  replied  Aubrey,  which  he 
could  say  with  a measure  of  truth  at  least.  “ I do  not  think, 
if  you  ask  me  my  frank  opinion,  that  he  is  a man  who  has 
ever  distressed  himself  with  a truly  great  passion.  Men  who 
merely  seek  in  love  their  own  self-indulgence  are  not  lovers 
in  the  romantic  sense  of  the  word ; they  are  not  lovers  like 
Montrose  or  Stradella,  or  Chastellard.  To  Henri  Quatre, 
Petrarch  would  have  seemed  a poor  fool.” 

“ These  are  generalities,”  she  said,  impatiently. 

“ And  you  want  personalities,  like  a true  woman  ? ” said 
Aubrey  with  a smile.  “Well,  my  child,  you  would  not  get 
them  from  me ; even  were  I in  possession  of  my  cousin’s 
secrets,  which  I am  not.  I think  your  greatest  enemy 
could  do  you  no  worse  turn  than  to  help  you  to  try  and  rake 
amongst  the  cold  ashes  of  your  husband’s  caprices.” 

“The  ashes  may  be  warm,”  she  said  with  impatience. 
“ Or  there  may  be  fresh  fires.” 

“ If  there  were,”  replied  Aubrey,  “ believe  me  you  would 
only  make  them  burn  furiously  by  throwing  on  them  the  phos 
phorus  of  an  irritated  and  inquisitive  jealousy.  Believe  me, 
dear,  there  is  only  one  couvr e-feu  to  which  a woman  can  trust 
to  extinguish  a glow  which  offends  her;  it  lies  in  her  own 
wisdom  and  devotion.  And  do  not  again  try  to  make  me 


206 


GUiLDEBOY. 


fill  the  office  of  tale-bearer.  If  I knew  anything  of  his  affair®, 
which  I do  not,  I would  not  descend  to  such  an  ignominy, 
even  to  serve  you.” 

She  colored  at  the  implied  rebuke,  and  was  silent. 

“ You  p„re  not  so  amiable  as  you  were,  my  child,”  said 
Vernon  to  her  on  one  of  the  days  in  which  she  was  with  him 
alone  for  a few  hours. 

“ I daresay  not,”  she  answered,  almost  sullenly.  “ The 
world  does  not  make  one  amiable.” 

“ That  depends  on  disposition/’  he  answered.  “ On  the 
whole,  I think  people  who  live  in  it  are  more  amiable  than 
those  who  live  out  of  it.  The  friction  with  others  and  the 
variety  of  interests  which  it  offers  tend  to  give  tolerance,  pli- 
ability and  good  humor  to  the  character.  The  world  is  to 
men  and  women  what  school  is  to  children  ; at  the  expense  of 
originality  and  meditation  it  teaches  social  wisdom  and  mod- 
erates over  expectation.” 

“ To  some,  at  least,  it  teaches  all  forms  of  self-indulgence,” 
she  said  bitterly. 

Her  father  looked  at  her. 

“ You  are  thinking  of  Guilderoy  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then  I think  you  do  very  wrongly,  my  dear.  He  has 
many  better  qualities  than  his  self-indulgence,  which  is  only 
the  necessary  outcome  of  great  freedom  to  enjoy  pleasure. 
Why  not  dwell  rather  on  those  ? ” 

She  said  nothing. 

“ I do  not  think  you  have  followed  the  counsels  I gave  you 
when  you  first  returned  here  from  Venice,”  he  continued.  “ I 
do  not  think  you  at  all  endeavor  to  do  what  I told  you  to  do.” 

“ What  would  be  the  use  if  I did  ? He  would  only  con- 
sider that  I bored  him  if  I offered  him  any  demonstrations  of 
attachment.  No  one  can  make  the  happiness  of  another 
person  when  they  are  wholly  outside  the  other’s  life,  as  I am 
outside  his.  I have  not  the  faintest  idea  of  his  real  interests, 
his  real  desires,  or  of  what  he  does  in  the  time  he  is  away 
from  me,  which  is  by  far  the  larger  part  of  his  time.” 

Vernon  sighed.  He  had  foreseen  it  all  as  clearly  as  though 
a magic  crystal  had  shown  it  to  him. 

“He  is  kind  to  me  in  many  things — ± do  not  deny  it — and 
very  generous,”  she  continued.  “ But  I feel  that  I am  only 
wearisome  to  him,  just  as  Ladysrood  is  ; though  he  loves 
Ladysrood,  and  he  does  not  love  me.” 


&U1LDEB0T' 


20  7 


« Why  should  you  think  he  does  not  ? After  these  years 
you  cannot  expect  the  caresses  of  a lover.  * 

“ He  never  loved  me — never  ! ” she  said  sadly.  “ It  was* 
a caprice.  He  has  so  many  caprices  ! He  regrets  the  cost  of' 
this  one  every  day  of  his  life,  I know,  though  he  is  a gentle- 
man and  does  not  say  so.” 

u Are  you  sure  you  are  not  morbidly  fanciful,  my  child  ? 
Cannot  you  be  content  with  the  sense  that  you  are  much 
nearer  to  him  than  any  other  woman  can  be  ? ” 

She  smiled.  The  smile  was  not  the  one  which  had  used  to 
come  on  her  face. 

“ I am  much  farther  off  him  than  any  other  woman  is ! 
He  would  tell  any  stranger  anything  sooner  than  he  would 
tell  it  to  me.  “ My  dear  father  ! All  that  you  say,  they  call 
vieuxjeu  in  our  world  : that  world  which  you  think  should 
make  me  so  amiable  ! ” 

“ I may  have  old-fashioned  ideas,  dear,”  said  Vernon, 
pained  by  her  tone,  “ but  however  fashions  change,  I do  not 
think  humanity  changes  so  very  greatly  under  them  ; and 
taut  que  le  monde  est  monde , I think  that  a woman  will 
make  her  own  unhappiness  by  exaggeration  of  her  wrongs, 
and  that  a great  and  genuine  devotion  on  her  part  will  touch 
any  man  soon  or  late.” 

<(  You  are  an  optimist ; he  alwaj^s  says  so.” 

“ Hoes  he  ? Yet  I was  very  far  from  optimistic  when  I 
endeavored  to  dissuade  you  both  from  your  union.” 

She  knew  that  he  had  indeed  done  his  best  to  prevent  her 
marriage,  and  she  said  nothing  more. 

u My  dear,”  he  added  very  gravely,  u the  fatal  mistake  of 
every  woman  is  to  weigh  the  man  in  her  own  scales.  You 
might  as  well  say  the  rosemary  growing  yonder  in  the  earth 
has  the  same  needs  and  the  same  habits  as  the  sea-gull  flying 
over  there.  It  is  this  horrible  pretension,  or  mistake,  or  ig- 
norance, whichever  it  is,  in  the  minds  of  women  which  makes 
their  own  misery  in  so  much.  I am  afraid  you  are  now  mak- 
ing it  as  so  many  of  your  sisters  have  done  before  you  to 
their  cost.  The  man  is  all  in  all  to  the  woman,  but  she  can 
never  be  all  in  all  to  him,  except  in  ^ome  few  first  hours  of 
delirium.  The  woman  can  receive  no  happiness,  physical  or 
mental,  save  from  her  beloved  ; but  he  can  find  pleasure,  if 
not  happiness,  with  those  whom  he  despises.  “L’homme 
aime  pour  le  plaisir  qu?il  rec^oit ; la  femme  aime  pour  le  plai- 
$ir  qu'elle  donne.”  Possession  and  intimacy  confirm  and 


m 


QUlLDEfiOr. 


strengthen  the  passion  of  the  woman ; hut  in  ninety-nine 
cases  out  of  a hundred  they  destroy  the  man’s  passion  alto- 
gether, and  leave  at  their  best  but  gratitude  or  tenderness 
behind  them.  These  are  painful  truths  which  every  woman, 
my  dear  child,  has  to  learn.  The  happy  women  are  those 
w\  10  learn,  and  do  not  fret  at  the  lesson.  The  unhappy  are 
those  who  incessantly  strive  to  resist  the  laws  of  nature. 
I want  you  to  be  happy.  But  happiness  will  not  come  by 
any  effort  that  you  make  to  dwell,  or  to  force  a man  to 
dwell,  in  an  imaginary  haven  of  impossibilities.  Nor  will  it 
come  through  any  turbulence  or  bitterness  of  jealousy.” 

Again  she  did  not  reply.  Her  heart  gave  no  echo  to  the 
words,  and  she  felt  almost  bitterness  against  her  adviser  for 
the  tolerant  wisdom  of  them.  u He  is  not  a woman  ; how 
can  he  tell  what  one  suffers  ? ” she  mused  impatiently. 

“ I suppose  I erred  in  her  education,”  thought  her  father 
with  sorrow.  “ I suppose  I forgot  that,  though  in  so  inno- 
cent a way,  yet  she  lived  wholly  for  herself  when  she  was 
with  me,  and  had  nothing  to  teach  her  how  to  live  for  others. 
It  seemed  to  be  very  lovely  and  harmless,  that  flower-like  life 
of  hers  amongst  the  boughs  and  the  birds ; I suppose  I forgot 
that  it  would  not  fit  her  for  those  colder  realities  which  the 
selfishness  of  every  man  makes  the  woman  suffer  from  .when 
his  affections  desert  her.  And  yet  I tried  to  make  her  some- 
what wiser,  somewhat  truer  than  most  women  are  ; and  I used 
to  think  I had  succeeded.  He  has  undone  my  work  very 
rapidly — he  and  the  great  world  together.” 

Gladys  meanwhile  left  him  with  a sense  of  injustice  done 
to  her. 

The  tender  sympathy  of  Aubrey  was  more  welcome  to  her 
than  her  father’s  uttered  and  implied  censures.  She  felt 
what  she  had  said — that  it  was  for  no  use  of  her  to  be  prodigal 
of  her  love  for  a man  who  was  not  so  much  ungrateful  to  it 
as  he  was,  from  indifference,  unconscious  of  it. 

“ I care  for  him  but  then  he  does  not  care  for  me  ! ” she 
thought  as  she  drove  through  the  green  twilight  of  the 
Ladysrood  woods. 

Who  could  help  that  ? What  effort  could  change  a dead 
passion  into  a living  one  ? Sooner  would  the  buried  bodies 
lying  in  the  thyme-scented  graveyard  which  hung  above  the 
sea  at  Christslea,  arise  and  walk. 


GUILLEMOT, . 


209 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

The  next  day  Aubrey  left  Ladysrood,  and  Guilderoy  went 
to  Paris  for  a week  ; at  the  end  of  the  week  their  first  circle 
of  guests  would  arrive  ; at  the  end  of  the  second  week  there 
were  to  come  to  them  some  royal  personages,  and  with  them 
the  Duchess  Soria. 

Gladys  had  five  days  of  quiet  and  rural  solitude  before  her. 

She  spent  them  almost  entirely  with  her  father.  When 
the  great  house  was  filled,  the  life  in  it  was  more  tedious  to 
her  even  than  London  ; her  time  still  less  her  own,  her 
patience  and  courtesy  still  more  severely  taxed.  Whatever 
society  might  be  to  others,  to  her  it  seemed  a treadmill  never 
resting,  a camisole  de  force  never  laid  aside,  a formula  inces- 
santly upon  the  lips,  a conventional  imposture  never  aban- 
doned for  a moment.  She  was  a child  still  at  heart,  and  all 
its  ceremonies  and  etiquette  and  precedence  were  to  her  as 
the  weight  of  her  jewels  and  the  length  of  her  train  had  been 
to  her  at  her  first  day  at  Court.  Oh,  for  one  cri  du  coeur  in 
the  midst  of  all  those  polished  murmurs  of  compliment  and 
calumny,  and  dissimulation,  and  veiled  indecencies,  and 
masked  innuendo  ! — so  she  thought  a hundred  times  a week 
in  it. 

Older  women,  women  either  colder  in  their  affections  or 
warmer  in  their  passions,  could  find  interest  and  excitement 
in  its  intrigues,  and  its  conflicting  and  contrasting  interests ; 
they  could  move  in  it  as  in  a labyrinth  of  which  they  had  the 
silken  clue  ; they  could  play  in  it  like  movers  of  pawns  and 
knights  at  chess. 

But  she  could  not  find  that  distraction  and  compensation. 
There  was  something  in  her  of  her  father’s  distaste  for  the 
hurry,  the  excitation,  the  falsity,  the  intrigue,  and  the  inci- 
dents, trivial  and  serious,  which  make  up  the  interest  of 
modern  society  ; they  had  no  power  to  attract  and  absorb  her. 

In  these  few  days  preceding  the  arrival  of  her  husband  and 
her  guests  she  was  soothed  and  strengthened  by  the  quiet 
country  atmosphere,  in  that  homeliness  and  tranquillity 
which  had  been  about  her  from  her  cradle.  When  she  was 


210 


GtllLDEROT. 


with  her  father  self-sacrifice  and  fortitude  seemed  still  posw 
ble.  In  the  feverishness  of  the  world  she  lost  her  hold  on 
them.  He  tried  to  make  her  see  that  there  was  nothing  new  in 
what  she  suffered  from ; nothing  more  than  was  usual  and 
inevitable.  He  tried  to  imbue  her  with  that  toleration  and 
indulgence  which  it  is  the  hardest  of  all  trials  to  attaii)  in 
youth.  He  could  add  little  that  was  new  to  what  he  had  said 
when  she  had  before  consulted  him ; but  that  little  he  strove 
to  put  before  her  with  sympathy  and  pity,  though  its  philoso- 
phic reasonings  seemed  very  cold  to  her. 

To  the  imagination  which  pictures,  and  the  heart  which 
craves,  richer,  fuller,  more  complete  joys  than  human  passion 
and  human  possessions  can  ever  bestow,  the  assurance  that 
such  perfection  is  but  a dream,  and  that  the  passions  can 
only  be  the  flower  of  a day,  appears  a dreary  creed  which 
lays  the  whole  world  barren. 

“ My  dear  child,”  said  Vernon,  “ you  have  only  found  what 
most  women  who  know  much  about  men  do  find,  that  the 
man  they  love  is  seldom  either  Achilles  or  Hector,  Sydney  or 
Montrose,  either  heroic  or  idealic,  but  is  generally  rather  like 
a sick  and  fractious  child  who  cries  for  what  he  cannot  get, 
and  beats  the  hand  which  tries  to  soothe  him.” 

She  smiled  but  sadly. 

“ My  dear,  I only  speak  thus  of  my  own  sex  in  their  pas- 
sions,” he  continued.  “ There  are  other  things  in  life  be- 
sides its  passions,  though  I admit  that  there  are  none  which 
color  it  so  deeply,  or  so  infuse  into  it,  irrevocably,  bitterness 
or  sweetness.  But  there  are  other  things  ; it  is  in  these 
other  things  that  you  should  find  your  allies.  Guilderoy  is  a 
man  whose  whole  life  should  not  be  squandered  in  falling  in 
love  and  falling  out  of  love.  He  has  position,  opportunity, 
talent : he  should  have  as  time  goes  on  some  other  aim  than 
breaking  the  hearts  of  women,  whether  your  heart  or  those  of 
others.  It  is  with  that  side  of  his  life  that  your  alliance, 
your  efforts,  your  interests  should  be.  Cannot  you  see  that  ? ” 

“ I cannot  see  what  does  not  exist,”  said  Gladys  coldly. 

He  has  no  other  object  in  life  than  his  own  pleasure.  He 
says  it  is  the  only  wise  philosophy.  I suppose  it  is,  when 
you  are  rich  enough  to  carry  it  out.” 

“ It  is  the  Epicurean;  but  what  joy  will  there  be  in  that 
without  youth  ? He  forgets  he  makes  no  provision  for 
age.” 

She  was  silent  j age  to  her  seemed  so  far  off,  that  it  was 


GUILD  EDO  Y. 


211 


without  shape  or  meaning  in  her  eyes  ; her  whole  soul  was 
concentrated  in  her  present. 

Her  father  looked  at  her.  There  were  regret,  anxiety,  dis- 
quietude in  the  regard. 

“ Gladys,”  he  said  abruptly,  u he  told  me  once  that  he 
thought  you  were  cold.  You  are  not  so.  Far  from  it. 
How  have  you  given  such  an  idea  of  you  to  a man  who  is 
your  husband  ? ” 

She  pulled  some  little  branches  of  the  sweetbriar  hedge  to 
her  nervously.  She  did  not  reply. 

u How  ? ” repeated  her  father.  “ You  must  have  failed  to 
respond  to  him  in  some  way  ? You  must  have  disappointed 
him  at  some  time  ? You  must  have  shut  your  heart  away 
from  his  gaze  ? Will  you  not  answer  me  ? ” 

Her  head  was  turned  from  him  and  her  voice  trembled  as 
she  replied  : “ I so  soon  saw  that  he  cared  so  little.” 
Everything  seemed  to  her  to  be  told  in  that. 

“ Are  you  sure  that  was  not  your  fancy  ? ” 

“ Quite  sure.” 

u Even  when  you  spoke  to  me  that  first  day  after  your  re- 
turn four  years  ago  ? You  remember  ? ” 
u Yes  : even  then.” 

She  sighed  impetuously. 

u Even  then,”  she  repeated.  He  had  paid  a great  price  for 
me  and  he  regretted  the  price — just  as  he  does  again  and 
again  when  he  bids  for  a picture  at  Christie’s,  or  the  Hotel 
Drouot,  and  it  falls  to  him.  The  picture  has  never  been 
painted  which  could  satisfy  him  when  he  gets  it  home  ! ” 
Yernon  echoed  her  sigh.  It  seemed  to  him  hopeless  to 
change  a state  of  feeling  built  on  caprice  and  on  indifference  ; 
on  a temperament  as  shifting  as  the  sands,  and  a discontent 
grown  out  of  self-indulgence.  He  looked  at  his  daughter 
with  irrepressible  sadness. 

It  seemed  such  a little  while  ago  that  she  had  run  along  by 
that  sweetbriar  hedge  in  the  sunshine,  no  taller  than  itself,  a 
happy,  careless,  fair-haired  child,  fresh  as  a “ rose  washed  in 
a shower.”  And  she  was  here — a great  lady,  an  unhappy  wo- 
man : a jealous  and  almost  deserted  wife  ! He  had  foreseen 
it  all  himself,  but  his  past  prescience  of  it  made  its  sorrow 
none  the  lighter. 

Gladys  sighed  wearily. 

Like  all  persons  of  poetic  and  ardent  mind  her  ideals  in 
youth  had  been  high  and  romantic  } the  man  who  had  knelt 


212 


GUILD  EROY, 


at  her  feet  in  the  library  of  Ladysrood  with  the  Horse  on  her 
knee  and  the  sunlight  through  the  painted  panes  falling  on  his 
handsome  head,  had  seemed  to  her  lover,  knight,  and  hero  all 
in  one.  And  what  had  she  found  him  ? Only  a master,  neg- 
ligent yet  exacting  ; indifferent  yet  arbitrary  ; restless,  hard 
to  please,  and  quite  impossible  to  content  ; who  took  his  in- 
finite social  and  personal  charms  elsewhere  ; who  spent  his 
time  and  his  passions  with  others,  and  who  considered  that 
he  had  fulfilled  all  the  obligations  of  his  position  to  her  when 
he  had  given  her  his  houses  to  direct  and  his  family  jewels 
to  wear. 

“ Yes,  my  dear,”  John  Vernon  said  in  his  own  thoughts, 
silently  answering  her  own  silence,  “you  make  the  common 
mistake  of  all  women.  You  think  that  the  gift  of  yourself 
gives  you  claim  to  the  man’s  eternal  affections.  It  does  not, 
It  cannot.  I know  this  seems  harsh  to  you,  and  cruel.  But 
it  is  the  law  of  sex.  Here  and  there  are  a mes  $ elite,  who 
suffice  solely  and  wholly,  physically  and  mentally,  to  each 
other  ; but  they  have  not  met  early  in  life,  and  they  have  not 
married  each  other.  Where  marriage  is  hostile  to  love,  is  that 
it  substitutes  material  gifts  of  worldly  goods,  worldly  advan- 
tages, worldly  position,  gifts  of  houses  and  money  and  land,  for 
the  sweet  spontaneous  gifts  of  the  passions  and  the  affections. 
In  savage  races  the  man  can  treat  his  wife  how  he  will,  because 
he  has  given  so  many  ponies,  or  cattle,  or  buffalo-skins,  for  her. . 
In  civilized  life  he  feels  in  the  same  way  that  he  has  paid  for 
her  in  material  matters,  and  so  is  absolved  from  other  and 
more  spiritual  payment.  There  is  something  to  be  said  for 
the  man’s  views,  only  where  is  the  woman  who  will  ever  per- 
ceive or  admit  it  ? ” 

But  all  this  he  could  not  say  to  her. 

“ If  you  have  living  children  you  will  be  happier,”  he  said 
aloud,  as  the  only  suggested  consolation  of  what  he  could 
think. 

Her  face  flushed,  and  she  rose  and  pulled  the  shoots  of  the 
sweetbriar  impetuously  off  their  stalks. 

“ I shall  never  have  children,”  she  said  in  a low  and  sullen 
voice.  “ Do  you  suppose  that  I would  live  with  him — with- 
out his  love — only  because  he  wishes  for  legitimate  offspring  ? 
Cannot  you  understand  ? I have  made  him  know  that  ever 
since — ever  since — I first  felt  that  he  did  not  care  for  me/’ 

“ And  he  accepts  the  condition  ? ” 
u Wlm  I tell  you  that  he  does  not  care  ? 9f 


GTJLLDEHOY,  213 

The  color  burned  in  her  cheeks ; a dark  cloud  of  anger 
hung  over  the  fairness  of  her  face. 

“ One  sees  it  in  the  world,  I know/’  she  continued  : u women 
who  goon  bearing  children  year  after  year  to  men  whom  they 
know  care  nothing  for  them,  but  they  must  be  without  spirit 
or  senses,  or  dignity  or  delicacy ; they  must  be  the  wretched 
beasts  of  burden  that  your  Griseldis  was  ! ” 

Her  father  looked  at  her  with  infinite  pain. 

“It  is  worse  than  I thought/’  he  said  briefly.  “I  do  not 
know  how  far  he  may  be  to  blame — he  has  never  opened  his 
heart  to  me,  and  I cannot  judge — but  Ido  not  think  thatyou 
cherish  the  spirit  which  can  bring  happiness  either  to  you  or 
him.  And  I do  not  think  that  you  have  any  right  to  refuse 
that  natural  burden  of  maternity  which,  however  little  you 
knew  of  life  then,  you  still  knew  would  be  your  portion  if  you 
married  him.” 

“ The  moment  that  he  has  ceased  to  love  me,  he  has  set  me 
free  from  all  such  obligations,”  she  said  passionately.  “ My 
little  children  lie  in  their  graves.  When  I shall  lie  with  them 
he  can  have  others  by  some  other  woman,  who  will  be  more 
grateful  for  his  gifts  and  his  position  than  am  I.” 

“ You  pain  me,  Gladys,”  said  Vernon,  with  a sigh. 

“ I cannot  help  it,”  she  replied,  selfish  with  that  concen- 
tration of  self  which  the  sufferings  of  the  heart  and  passions 
always  entail. 

“ When  I am  with  you,”  she  said  with  the  tears  rising  to 
her  eyes,  “I  am  in  much  what  I used  to  be.  I feel  your  in- 
fluence. I believe  as  you  believe  in  the  power  of  self-sacri- 
fice and  patience.  But  I leave  all  the  good  you  do  me  with- 
in this  little  gate.  I cannot  carry  it  out  into  the  world. 
There  I am  only  foolish,  jealous,  embittered,  made  cold  or 
made  wicked,  one  hour  this,  one  hour  that.  In  the  world  I 
see  that  women  who  are  forsaken  find  consolation.  Why 
should  I not  find  it  if  I can  ? One  of  your  classic  writers 
says  somewhere  that  a woman  has  always  one  power  of  ven- 
geance. Sometimes  I feel  that  I will  try  and  reach  his  pride 
with  that,  since  I can  touch  in  no  better  way  his  heart.” 

Vernon  was  silent  for  some  moments;  he  understood  all 
the  conflicting  impulses  at  w ar  within  her,  and  he  was  at 
once  too  merciful  and  too  wise  to  meet  them  with  the 
empty  conventional  arguments  of  what  is  called  in  the  world 
morality.  He  believed,  like  Aubrey,  that  it  is  Qxdy  by  the 
affections  that  women  can  or  should  be  ever  led. 


214 


GUILDEBOY. 


“ Other  women  have  done  that,”  he  said  at  last,  “and  have 
repented  it  all  their  lives  long. 

‘ Graviora  quaedam  sunt  remedia  periculis.9 

We  cannot  wound  what  we  love  without  wounding  ourselves 
more  profoundly  still ; and  to  dishonor  ourselves  because  we 
feel  ourselves  humiliated  seems  to  me  the  act  of  madness ; it 
would  be  as  wise  to  cut  our  throats  because  the  cold  makes 
our  hands  ache  on  a winter’s  day.  By  what  you  tell  me, 
you  have  set  free  your  husband  by  your  own  choice ; you 
cannot  complain  if  he  construes  his  liberty  with  a man’s 
liberal  and  loose  reading  of  the  word.  You  have  been  too 
quick  to  consider  yourself  neglected,  and  too  quick  to  repu- 
diate your  own  obligations.  You  have  beauty,  you  have 
youth,  and  you  have  the  honor  of  the  man  you  love,  or  have 
loved,  in  your  hands.  If  with  all  tha?s  you  can  obtain  no  influ- 
ence on  him,  and  cannot  rise  to  a higher  level  than  that  of 
your  own  personal  affronts  and  suspicions,  you  are  not  what  I 
thought  you;  and  all  the  care  and  culture!  have  given  to  you, 
and  all  the  efforts  I have  made  to  render  you  in  some  little 
degree  wiser  and  kinder  than  other  women,  have  been  lost. 
To  feel  that  it  is  so  will  be  the  crowning  disappointment  of 
my  life,  which  has  been  neither  so  tranquil  nor  so  contented 
as  others  think  it.  For  I am  mortal,  and  I have  found,  like 
all  mortals,  that  ‘ life  is  a series  of  losses.’  Do  not  let  me 
lose  you  at  least.” 

She  was  touched  to  the  quick  if  she  was  not  convinced. 
The  tears  fell  upon  her  father’s  hand  as  she  kissed  it. 

But  she  promised  nothing. 

“Do  not  let  us  talk  any  more  of  this,”  said  Vernon. 
“Feeling  loses  its  force  and  its  delicacy  if  we  put  it  under 
the  microscope  too  often  whether  you  be  living  or  dead.  I 
believe  you  will  always  live  your  own  life  in  such  wise  as  I 
should  most  wish.  In  dishonoring  yourself  you  would  dis- 
honor me  ; you  will  remember  that.  Let  us  go  down  to  the 
shore.  Nothing  soothes  one  like  the  sound  of  the  sea.  Who 
has  been  mistaken  enough  to  say  that  Nature  was  not  loved 
in  classic  eyes  ? Why,  all  Greek  and  Latin  verse  is  full  of 
it,  from  the  roar  of  the  waves  in  Homer  to  the  chaunt  of  the 
grasshopper  in  Meleager,  and  the  birds  singing  in  the  rose- 
mary of  Tibullus  ! ” 


GUILDEROY \ 


215 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Yernon  was  seated  a few  days  later  in  the  wicker  chair  of 
his  garden,  with  a volume  of  Terence  on  his  knee,  and  the 
dog  at  his  feet  when  the  old  woman  in  cotton  kirtle  and  coal- 
scuttle bonnet  who  served  as  letter-carrier  for  some  twelve 
miles  round,  brought  him  a packet  of  publishers’  letters  and 
newspapers,  and  pamphlets,  and  one  other  letter  in  a hand  un- 
known to  him,  and  enclosed  in  the  thick  blue  paper  which 
usually  bespeaks  a legal  correspondence.  When  he  read  it 
he  found  himself  the  master  of  a modest  little  fortune.  A 
very  distant  relation  in  the  colonies,  whom  he  had  had  no  com- 
munication from  for  twenty  years,  and  of  whom  he  had 
scarcely  every  known  anything,  had  died  childless,  and  had 
left  him  the  proceeds  of  a long  life  of  sheepfarming,  “ because 
he  is  the  only  honest  man  I have  ever  heard  of,”  said  this 
Hew  Zealand  Diogenes  in  his  testament. 

The  letter  of  these  lawyers,  who  were  wholly  strangers  to 
him,  moved  him  to  a mingled  emotion.  He  could  not  but  be 
thankful  that  his  future  years,  brief  as  they  might  be,  would 
be  freed  from  the  atroe  curoe,  of  reliance  on  precarious  literary 
labors  ; but  his  heart  ached  that  this  good  news  had  not  come 
earlier.  A reluctant  consent  had  been  wrung  from  him  to 
Gladys’  marriage,  principally  because  he  knew  that  the  state 
of  his  health  might  any  day  leave  her  without  a protector,  and 
that  he  had  not  means  to  bequeath  to  her  any  ease  or  elegance 
of  life.  This  knowledge  had  made  him  conscious  that  he  had 
no  right  to  stand  between  his  daughter  and  the  brilliant  and 
secure  position  offered  to  her,  from  mere  romantic  apprehen- 
sions which  the  future  might  never  realize.  But  if  this  little 
fortune  had  come  to  him  before  the  visit  of  Guilderoy,  he 
would  not  have  hesitated  to  place  the  test  of  long  probation 
betwixt  him  and  his  desires.  Alas  ! when  fortune  stretches 
out  full  hands,  it  is  so  often  too  late  for  her  gifts  to  be  of 
much  use.  Still  he  was  thankful,  as  he  sat  in  the  pale  sun- 
shine amidst  the  honeysuckle  and  sweetbriar  of  his  cottage 
porch. 

He  loved  learning  with  all  a scholar’s  tender  and  delicate 
devotion,  and  it  had  often  seemed  to  him  almost  a prostitution 


216 


GUILLEMOT. 


of  it  to  turn  his  command  of  its  treasures  into  a means  of  mak« 
ing  money.  A sentimentality  the  world  would  have  called  it, 
as  it  always  calls  everjr  better  emotion  in  us. 

As  he  sat  thus  he  heard  the  rapid  trot  of  horses*  feet  com 
ing  up  the  sandy  lane,  sunk  low  between  high  flowering 
hedges  and  banks  which  were  in  spring  purple  with  violets. 

“ Someone  from  Ladysrood,”  he  thought. 

Ladysrood  had  become  full  of  guests,  and  Vernon  never 
consented  to  go  there  when  there  was  a house  party ; he 
pleaded  utter  disuse  of  society,  and  distaste  for  it ; and,  in* 
deed,  few  of  the  associates  of  Guilderoy  had  much  in  com- 
mon with  him.  And  he  had  an  unchangeable  resolution  never 
to  give  any  human  being  the  right  to  say  that  he  had  grati- 
fied his  own  ambition,  and  secured  his  own  interests,  by  his 
daughter’s  alliance. 

“ Why  should  you  persist  in  remaining  so  aloof  from  us  ? ” 
Guilderoy  had  said  to  him  that  same  morning  ; and  Vernon 
replied  * — 

16  Why  should  I renew  acquaintance  with  the  great  world 
when  it  and  I have  been  strangers  so  long  ? My  life  must 
seem  to  you  like  that  of  a snail  or  a mollusc,  fastened  under 
a cabbage-leaf  or  a ribbon  weed.  But  it  is  a contented  one. 
Can  you  say  as  much  for  yours  ? ” 

Guilderoy  was  at  a loss  what  to  answer. 

“ You  are  the  only  contented  person  I have  ever  met,”  he 
said  evasively. 

“ I am  content  because  I have  done  with  expectation,”  re- 
plied Vernon.  “ What  is  discontent?  Only  desires  which 
are  incapable  of  fulfilment.  I quite  understand  that  the 
whole  tenor  of  modern  life  inevitably  produces  it ; that  is  why 
I live  chiefly  with  the  dead.” 

“ A waste  of  your  great  intelligence,  and  a deprivation  to 
those  who  appreciate  your  society,”  said  Guilderoy. 

“ My  dear  Evelyn,”  said  Vernon,  u I am  not  vain  enough 
to  believe  in  your  flattery.  Whatever  my  intelligence  may 
be  worth  I can  put  on  paper,  and  if  any  really  care  for  my 
society  they  can  come  to  Christslea — as  you  come.” 

Guilderoy  colored  a little.  He  was  sensible  that  he  same 
but  seldom  there.  And  yet  he  had  great  affection  and  ad- 
miration for  John  Vernon. 

“ It  is  a very  great  pity  that  he  remains  such  a recluse,”  he 
said  once  to  Aubrey,  who  replied : — “ You  think  my  life  dis* 
tressingly  wasted  on  the  country.  You  think  Vernon’s 


GUILDEBOY , 


217 


iressingly  wasted  on  solitude.  He  and  I think  yours  distress- 
in  gly  wasted  on  pleasure.  Which  of  the  three  of  us  is  most 
right  ? ” * 

“ Probably  we  are  all  three  extremely  unwise  to  judge  of, 
and  for  others.” 

“ That  may  very  well  he.  Possibly,  too,  all  life  is  more  or 
less  wasted,  because  men,  with  all  their  studies,  have  never 
studied  the  secret  of  truly  enjoying  it.  Possibly,  too,  Ver- 
non in  his  hermitage  is  nearer  doing  so  than  either  you  or  I.” 

But  though  he  had  never  gone  thither,  those  of  the  guests 
3>f  Ladysrood  who  had  learning  enough  to  appreciate  it  often 
sought  his  society,  and  the  little  cottage  under  the  apple  or- 
chards had  become  a sort  of  intellectual  Delphos  to  those  men 
of  genius  and  learning  who  were  numbered  amongst  Gruilde- 
roy’s  friends.  It  was  no  one  of  these  now,  but  Hilda  Sun- 
bury,  who  lifted  the  latch  of  the  little  wooden  gate  and  came 
under  the  wild  rose  boughs  to  him. 

Having  begun  by  hating  him  as  an  adventurer  and  an  ec- 
centric solitary,  she  had  ended  in  admiring  him  and  esteem- 
ing him.  “ The  only  really  sensible  man  I ever  met  ” she 
often  averred. 

Vernon,  on  his  part,  liked  her;  he  appreciated  her  strong 
attachments  and  her  strong  common  sense,  which  yet  so 
denied  her  those  true  charms — sympathy  and  the  power  of 
silence.  She  had  now  driven  over  alone,  ostensibly  to  consult 
him  about  one  of  her  sons,  but  in  reality  for  another  purpose. 
When  she  had  spoken  of  her  son,  of  politics,  and  of  the 
weather,  she  hesitated  a moment,  and  then  said  : — 

“Mr.  Vernon,  you  and  I have  one  common  object  and  de- 
sire, the  happiness  of  my  brother  and  your  daughter.” 

“Certainly,  my  dear  lady,”  replied  Vernon  ; “but  if  you 
mean  that  either  you  or  I can  do  anything  except  wishing 
for  it,  you  are  greatly  mistaken.  I have  told  you  so  very 
often.” 

“ A word  in  season  surely ” 

“Ah,  no!  It  is  just  those  words  which  are  always  most 
aggravating ! I am  sure  you  have  some  bad  news  for  me. 
Spare  me,  and  tell  it  quickly.” 

“ I ought  not  to  tell  you  at  all.  But  you  have  heard  of  the 
Duchess  Soria  ? ” 

“ Never.” 

She  gave  him  the  outlines  of  the  Duchess  Soria's  past,  ss 


218 


GUILDEROY. 


far  as  it  had  been  connected  with  her  brother ; and  Vernon 
heard  with  impatience. 

“ It  was  broken  off  before  his  marriage,  no 'doubt,”  he  said, 
“ Why  rake  amongst  dead  leaves  ? ” 

“ Because  leaves  grow  again.” 

“ You  mean  ? ” 

“ That  Evelyn  is  more  in  love  with  this  woman  than  he 
ever  was  before,  and  that  she  comes  to  Ladysrood  to-morrow. 
Now  what  I wish  to  know  is,  shall  you  or  I tell  your  daugh- 
ter ? ” 

Vernon  heard  with  infinite  pain. 

“I  knew  how  it  would  be,”  he  murmured.  “But  I con- 
fess  it  is  sooner  than  even  I thought.  My  child  is  worth 
more  than  that.  Perhaps  you  mistake  T ” 

“ I never  mistake,”  she  replied,  with  hauteur $ “ and  if  I 
sacrifice  the  reputation  of  my  brother  to  you,  it  is  out  of 
sincere  regard  for  your  daughter.” 

“ What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ? ” 

“Whatever  you  deem  best.  She  must  certainly  not  be 

left  to  remain  in  ignorance,  to  receive  Beatrice  Soria ” 

Vernon  sighed. 

“Dear  madam,  it  is  only  ignorance — unless  most  wondrous 
and  perfect  patience — which  enables  any  woman  to  endure 
her  married  life  at  all.” 

“ You  mean,  then,  you  would  leave  her  in  ignorance  ? ” 

“ Yes.  What  good  could  knowledge  do  if  it  be  as  you 
think  ?” 

“ Good  heavens  ! Surely  there  is  such  a thing  as  self- 
respect  ? ” 

“Yes-;  my  child  will  always  have  self-respect,  for  she  will 
never,  I am  convinced,  do  anything  to  lose  the  respect  of 
others.  Self-respect  does  not  consist  in  making  violent 
scenes,  or  ill-judged  reproaches,  or  discoveries  which  are  for- 
ever fatal  to  peace.” 

“ You  take  the  insult  to  your  daughter  strangely  quietly.” 
“ I have  known  the  world  in  my  time,  my  dear  madam, 
and  I read  your  brother’s  character  before  he  had  been  ten 
minutes  in  my  study  ; it  is  not  a character  from  which  any 
woman  can  expect  constancy.  I thought,  however,  that  he 
was  a gentleman  : if  he  is  as  insincere  and  as  unscrupulous  as 
you  describe  he  is  not  one.” 

“Not  a gentleman!” 

Lady  Sunbury  flushed  crimson,  and  rose  in  bitter  anger. 


GUILDJEBOTo 


219 


“ Hot  if  what  you  tell  me  is  true.” 

“ I did  not  tell  you  that  he  might  be  abused,  but  argued 
v/ith ; and  that  your  daughter  might  be  warned  and  coun- 
selled.” 

John  Vernon  sighed  wearily. 

“ Dear  Lady  S unbury,  you  and  I both  spent  all  our  intelli- 
gence in  warnings  and  in  counsels  before  this  marriage  took 
place.  Action,  now  that  it  has  taken  place,  would  be  worse 
than  useless.” 

“My  intentions  are  misunderstood,”  said  his  visitor  cold- 
ly. “ All  my  inclinations  would,  of  course,  lie  towards 
screening  and  excusing  my  brother.  But  I thank  God  that 
I have  never  allowed  mere  inclination  to  be  the  guide  of  my 
conduct.  I believe  in  duty,  though  I know  the  world  of  our 
day  ridicules  and  despises  me.  and  my  sense  of  duty  made 
me  feel  that  I could  not  allow  my  sister-in-law  ignorantly  to 
receive  her  most  formidable  rival.” 

“I  thank  you  for  your  feeling  for  Gladys,”  said  Vernon, 
with  emotion,  “but  neither  you  nor  I should  do  any  good  in 
lifting  the  band  off  her  eyes ; it  will  fall  soon  enough  of 
itself.  Besides — pardon  me — you  cannot  tell  that  Guilderoy’s 
feelings  have  revived  for  this  lady.  He  cannot  have  told 
you,  I presume  ? ” 

“He  has  not  told  me,  certainly.  But  I have  always  taken 
means  to  be  aware  of  my  brother’s  actions,  and  I know  that 
all  relations  are  renewed  between  him  and  the  Duchess 
Soria.”  * 

Vernon  covered  his  eyes  from  the  sun  with  one  hand.  The 
calm  sweet  light  and  the  gay  song  of  the  mavises  in  the  ad- 
jacent orchard  hurt  him. 

“ It  is  very  sad  if  true,”  he  said  at  last.  “ But  interfer- 
ence were  worse  than  useless.  It  would  only  confirm  your 
brother  in  his  infidelity,  and  inspire  in  my  daughteT  a resent- 
ment which  she  could  never  forget.  Dear  madam,  believe 
me,  marriage  is  a difficult  thing.  But,  as  law  stands,  we  can- 
not undo  one  once  contracted  without  publicity,  comment,  in- 
terrogation, every  indignity  which  it  is  most  frightful  for 
either  a proud  or  a delicate  nature  to  provoke.  What  then 
remains  ! Only  to  leave  such  peace  as  there  is  in  it  undis- 
turbed as  long  as  we  can.  I know  that  you  believe  in  the  ad- 
vantages of  interference.  Ido  not.  When  we  are  sure  to  do 
any  possible  good  by  it,  it  is  a dangerous  meddling  with  fates 
riot  our  own.  When  we  cannot  even  be  sure  of  so  much  as  that 


220 


QUlLLEROt. 


we  certainly  cannot  dare  to  attempt  anything.  Your  brothers 
wish  for  my  daughter’s  hand  was,  as  you  know,  most  unwel- 
come to  me,  because  I knew  that  he  had  not  the  stability, 
nor  she  the  experiance,  to  make  happiness  between  them  pos- 
sible ; but  since,  unhappily,  she  is  his  wife,  she  shall  not,  I 
promise  you,  whilst  I live,  allow  either  passion  or  injury  to 
fling  his  name  to  the  howling  calumnies  and  cruelties  of  the 
world  : not  whilst  I live.” 

There  was  a great  sadness  in  the  three  last  words,  and  he 
sighed  as  he  said  them. 

u When  I am  gone  be  kind  to  her,”  he  added. 

“ Where  are  you  going  ? ” 

u Where  we  must  all  go.” 

Hilda  Sunbury  looked  at  him  in  surprise  and  wonder. 

“ Why  should  you  speak  so  ? You  are  as  likely  to  live 
as  she  or  I.  You  are  in  the  full  vigor  and  flower  of  your 
intellect.” 

John  Vernon  smiled. 

“ Of  my  intellect,  perhaps  ; but,  unhappily,  living  is  a 
physical  question,  and  when  the  body  succumbs  the  light  of 
the  mind  goes  out  too.  I have  always  thought  it  the  greatest 
argument  for  the  immortality  of  the  soul  ; for  it  is  really 
ridiculous  to  suppose  that  the  hemlock  could  really  destroy 
such  a mind  as  Socrates,  or  that  the  genius  which  created 
Ariel  and  Caliban  can  have  been  killed  forever  because 
Warwickshire  leeches  in  the  Elizabethan  days  were  fools. 
Plato,  indeed- ” 

Lady  Sunbury  rose  in  evident  irritation. 

“ Socrates  and  Plato  ! Good  heavens,  Mr.  Vernon,  how 
can  you  possibly  think  of  such  people  when  I have  just  told 
you,  at  the  greatest  pain  to  myself,  and  perhaps  even  disloy- 
alty to  my  brother,  of  what  wrong  is  being  done  to  your  only 
child  ! ” 

u My  dear  madam,”  said  Vernon  wearily,  ic  if  my  child  ul- 
timately succeeds  in  keeping  the  honor  of  your  brother’s  name 
intact,  and  bearing  her  own  pain  and  dishonor  in  silence,  she 
will  owe  it  to  that  which  I have  told  her  in  childhood  of  those 
two  dear  dead  friends  of  mine.  Perhaps  you  have  never 
read  the  Apology  or  the  Crito  ? Horace  has  said  that  a new 
amphora  keeps  long  the  odor  of  the  first  wine  poured  in  it ; 
and  as  it  is  with  the  earthen  vase,  so  it  is  with  the  human 
mind  in  youth,” 


QUILLBftOY.  221 

Lady  Sunbury  left  the  garden  of  Christslea  with  of- 
fence. 

She  reflected  that  it  was  always  wholly  useless  to  look  for 
practical  wisdom  from  the  students  of  books. 

She  had  been  born  with  an  ungovernable  love  of  interfer- 
ence with  the  affairs  of  others.  She  believed  so  conscien- 
tiously in  the  excellence  of  her  attentions,  that  she  was  sin- 
cerely ignorant  of  the  curiosity,  love  of  authority,  and 
many  another  personal  motive,  wrhich  were  continually  mov- 
ing her  to  interfere,  to  govern  the  destinies  and  correct  the 
errors  of  others.  Her  detestation  of  the  Duchess  Soria  had 
been  to  the  full  as  potent  in  her  present  action  as  her  anger 
with  Guilderoy  and  her  indignation  for  the  wrongs  of  his 
wife.  Like  many  another  woman  of  energy  and  exclusive 
attachments,  she  could  not  resist  the  feeling  that  she  had 
been  appointed  by  Providence  to  watch  over,  and  save  from 
themselves  all  those  who  belonged  to  her : and  though  this 
view  of  her  mission  had  never  yet  had  any  other  result  than 
to  alienate  and  weary  those  whom  she  desired  to  serve,  and 
frequently  to  hasten  their  descent  down  that  path  which  she 
sought  to  prevent  them  from  ever  following,  yet  she  never 
could  so  alter  her  nature  as  to  refrain  from  making  the  at- 
tempt. Her  husband  hated,  her  sons  feared,  and  her  brother 
often  avoided  her  in  consequence,  but  no  power  on  earth 
would  ever  have  persuaded  her  that  her  failure  to  influence 
them  arose  from  her  own  fault.  Alas  ! most  people  carry 
about  with  them  a lanthorn  like  Diogenes,  but  they  are  for- 
ever flashing  its  rays  into  the  faces  and  the  souls  of  others ; 
they  do  not  remember  to  turn  its  light  inward. 

Lady  Sunbury  indeed  knew — no  one  better — that  a woman 
can  no  more  restrain  a man  from  inconstancy  than  she  can 
restrain  the  breakers  of  the  sea  from  rolling  up  on  to  the  shore. 
She  knew,  too,  by  her  own  experience,  that  rebuke,  reproach, 
expostulation,  publicity,  only  increase  the  evils  against  which 
they  passionately  protest.  But  she  did  not  choose  to  remem- 
ber anything  of  what  she  knew.  She  was  only  ready  to 
blame  her  brother's  wife  for  too  passive  acquiescence,  as  she 
would  have  blamed  her  had  she  had  recourse  to  any  violent 
indignation.  She  could  not  pardon  her  for  having  gained  no 
influence  over  Guilderoy,  even  as  she  would  never  have  for- 
given her  had  she  succeeded  in  gaining  any.  She  knew  that 
her  sister-in-law  was  unhappy,  and  that  such  unhappiness 
was  at  her  age  perilous  in  every  kind  of  way ; but  yet  «hf 


222 


GUILDEROY - 


was  rather  impatient  of  her  and  critical  of  her  than  comp*,a 
sionate.  If  she  were  not  a simpleton  she  was  wicked — quite 
wicked — not  to  take  such  measures  as  would  save  her  hus- 
band from  unfaithfulness  and  herself  from  sorrow. 

And  she,  who  had  forgotten  the  saying  that  “ fools  rush 
in  where  angels  fear  to  tread,”  or  else  never  imagined  that 
by  any  possibility  she  could  be  classed  with  fools,  drove  rap- 
idly home  to  Ladysrood,  where  a large  party  was  staying  as 
well  as  herself.  “ It  will  be  very  difficult  to  see  her  alone,” 
she  thought,  “but  I will  try.” 

As  it  chanced,  Guilderoy  was  out  riding  with  several  of 
his  friends  ; the  remainder  of  the  guests  were  sitting,  saunter- 
ing, or  playing  afternoon  games  in  the  west  gardens.  There 
was  a large  table  spread  under  one  of  the  great  chestnuts, 
where  servants  were  serving  tea,  ices,  fruits,  wines,  straw- 
berries and  cream — everything  that  was  wished  for  or  imag- 
ined. Gladys  was  performing  the  part  of  mistress  of  a great 
house,  which  had  now  become  second  nature  to  her,  but  which 
never  ceased  to  oppress  and  fatigue  her  with  its  tedium. 

Society,  like  all  other  pursuits  of  life,  requires  to  have  an 
object  in  it  to  be  interesting.  She  had  no  object ; it  did  not 
seem  to  her  that  anything  of  interest  could  possibly  arise  in 
her  life.  She  had  pain  in  it,  and  a jealousy  for  which  she 
contemned  herself,  but  these  had  both  become  so  familiar  by 
habit  that  she  had  ceased  to  expect  ever  to  be  free  from  them. 
Her  want  of  interest  in  what  went  on  around  her  gave  her  a 
listless  air,  which  all  her  really  sincere  efforts  to  be  kind  and 
courteous  could  not  repair.  People  felt  that  they  were  in- 
different to  her,  that  they  bored  her,  that  she  would  have  pre- 
ferred their  absence  to  their  presence,  and  there  were  many; 
whose  vanity  made  them  bitterly  resent  this.  She  was  mov- 
ing now  from  one  group  to  another,  doing  her  best  to  be 
amused  by  what  so  greatly  amused  everyone  else,  and  failing 
entirely  to  be  so.  She  wore  a Gainsborough  hat,  with  long 
feathers  drooping  to  her  shoulders  ; she  had  on  a white  frock 
of  very  soft  embroidered  gauze  tissue,  and  a great  sash  of 
broad  pale  blue  ribbon  was  fastened  at  the  side. 

“ She  is  really  a lovely  creature,”  thought  her  sister-in- 
law.  “ How  wild  he  would  be  about  her  were  she  only  some 
one  else?s  wife  ! ” 

Lady  Sunbury  joined  the  groups  under  the  chestnuts  and 
bided  her  time.  It  was  still  early.  There  was  a great  deal  of 
laughter  and  flirtation  and  general  diversion,  the  air  was  balmy? 


GUILDEROY. 


223 


und  the  gardens  delightful.  Someone  asked  if  they  might  dance* 
the  lawn  was  so  smooth.  The  lady  of  Ladysrood  assented ; the 
musicians*  who  were  always  in  the  house*  were  sent  for  and 
stationed  where  they  were  not  seen*  behind  thickets  of  rho- 
dodendron ; the  people  began  to  dance. 

Gladys  and  Lady  Sunbury  were  left  almost  alone. 

“How  strange  that  they  can  care  for  that!”  said  the 
former*  with  dreamy  contempt*  as  she  watched  the  valsers 
moving  round. 

“ How  I wish  you  cared  for  it*  my  dear ! ” said  Lady  Sun- 
bury.  “ How  I wish  you  cared  for  anything  ! ” 

“ Ho  you  ? ” Gladys  looked  suddenly  at  her  with  a strange 
expression  in  her  eyes. 

“Certainly  I do*”  said  her  sister-in-law.  “You  would  be 
so  much  happier  if  you  were — were — interested  in  what  goes 
on  around  you.” 

“ I am  very  often  interested  ; I am  not  often  pleased.” 

“What  does  she  mean  ? ” thought  Lady  Sunbury. 

“ I wanted  to  say  something  to  you  for  a moment  in  pri- 
vate. Could  we  go  a little  apart*  do  you  think  ? They  ar© 
all  dancing.” 

“Oh*  yes.  They  will  not  miss  me.” 

She  moved  away  from  the  gayety  of  the  scene  into  a walk 
known  as  the  King’s  Alley*  because  Charles  Stuart  had 
paced  up  and  down  it  in  the  dark  days  between  Oxford  and 
Whitehall.  It  was  a green  walk  enclosed  on  either  side  with 
tall  walls  of  clipped  yew*  above  which  stretched  and  met  th  e 
boughs  of  massive  beeches.  It  was  sequestered  and  out  of 
earshot*  though  the  music  of  the  waltz  came  to  them  on  the 
air  as  they  paced  dowrn  it. 

“ You  care  for  your  father  ? ” said  Lady  Sunbury. 

“Ah  ! ” It  was  an  ejaculation  rather  than  a word,  but  the 
whole  love  of  a lifetime  was  in  it.  “ It  is  no  ill  of  him  you 
want  to  say,  is  it  ? ” 

“ Oh,  no*”  said  her  sister-in-law.  I went  to  see  him  this 
afternoon.  I wanted  him  to  tell  you  something  which  must 
be  told  you.  But  he  refused.” 

“Be  sure  that  it  should  not  be  told  at  all*  then*”  said 
Gladys*  coldly. 

“Mr.  Yernon  is  not  infallible*”  replied  Hilda  Sunbury, 
growing  angered.  “ I consider  that  it  should  be  told,  and  I 
am  the  best  judge  of  what  is  or  is  not  for  the  honor  of  my 
family.  I do  not  wish  you  to  receive  the  Duchess  Soria.” 


224 


GUILDEKOT. 


Gladys  stood  still  and  looked  at  her. 

“ Why  ? ” she  asked. 

“ Because — because  my  brother  was  her  friend— more  than 
her  friend — before  his  marriage.” 

“My  dear  Lady  Sunbury,”  said  her  brother’s  wife  very 
calmly,  “ if  I am  to  decline  to  know  all  the  women  your 
brother  honored  in  that  manner,  I shall  have  to  make  great 
excisions  in  my  visiting  list.” 

“ Good  heavens  ! Can  you  make  a jest  of  it  ? ” 

“ No  ; God  knows  that  it  is  farthest  from  my  thoughts.  But 
the  world  would  make  a jest  of  him  if  I acted  on  your  ad- 
vice.” 

“Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  were  aware  of  what  his  re- 
lations were  with  Beatrice  Soria  ? and  what  they  have  again 
become  ?” 

Gladys  grew  very  pale. 

“I  knew  there  was  something — someone — it  does  not 
matter  who — it  is  not  the  first  time.” 

Her  voice  was  faint  with  pain,  but  her  face  was  calm. 

“ Are  you  sure  that  it  is  Mine.  Soria  ? ” she  asked,  after  a 
moment’s  pause. 

“ Perfectly  sure.  You  cannot  let  her  come  here  ; you  must 
make  Evelyn  understand  that.  I speak  as  I do  for  your 
honor  and  his.” 

“ Or  for  our  estrangement,”  thought  Gladys  bitterly. 

“ My  father  said  I was  not  to  be  told  this  ? ” she  inquired. 

“Yes.  He  said  it  could  do  no  good.  He  did  not  appre- 
ciate my  motives — my  sense  of  duty.” 

“ Neither  do  I,”  said  Gladys,  abruptly  ; and  she  began  to 
walk  on  under  the  beechen  shadows. 

“ I am  sorry  that  you  do  not,”  said  Lady  Sunbury,  sternly. 
“You  are  nothing  to  me,  and  my  brother  is  much.  But  1 
could  not  see  a wrong  done  to  you  under  your  own  roof  while 
I could  save  you  from  it  by  a word  of  warning.  It  was  useless 
to  speak  to  Guilderoy  ; he  is  self-willed,  careless,  obdurate, 
where  his  fancies  are  involved.  I deemed  it  best  to  put  you 
on  your  guard.  If  you  tell  him  you  refuse  to  receive  the 
Duchess  Soria  he  will  be  compelled  to  acquiesce,  and  he  will 
not  ask  your  reasons,  and  he  will  be  saved  from  the  world’s 
condemnation.” 

Gladys  said  nothing  in  answer.  She  continued  to  pace 
alley  with  agitated,  quickened^steps. 


GXJILDEEOY,  225 

“ Have  you  a personal  dislike  to  Mme,  Soria  ? ” she  asked, 
abruptly. 

“ That  is  a very  unworthy  insinuation,”  replied  her  sister 
in-law,  with  hauteur.  “ This  much  I will  say  of  her — she  is 
the  only  woman  on  earth  who  ever  really  influenced  my  brother. 
You  must  be  aware  that  you  yourself  have  no  more  influence 
over  him  than  if  you  were  a statue.  Of  course  I do  not  know 
whether  that  is  his  fault  or  yours.” 

Each  one  of  the  words  went  to  the  heart  of  the  hearer  as 
if  it  had  been  a stab  with  a knife.  Had  it  been  her  fault  ? 
Her  father  had  also  seemed  to  think  so.  Her  sister 
in-law  evidently  thought  so.  What  did  women  do  to 
retain  the  passion  and  elicit  the  confidence  of  men  ? 
She  could  not  tell.  Who  could  put  in  her  possession  the 
secret  of  that  marvellous  talisman  ? She  turned  to  her  com- 
panion with  composure,  though  her  lips  were  very  pale 

“ I have  no  doubt  you  mean  well,  though  you  might  find 
it  hard  wTork  to  persuade  Lord  Guilderoy  that  you  do  so. 
Mme.  Soria  does  not  come  for  three  days.  In  the  morning  I 
will  go  to  Christslea  and  consult  my  father.” 

u Your  father  will  certainly  counsel  you  to  keep  the  role 
of  Griseldis,”  said  Lady  Sunbury,  with  ill-repressed  rage  and 
violence. 

Gladys’s  face  flushed  painfully. 

“ If  I do  keep  it,”  she  said  with  bitterness,  u it  is  certainly 
the  members  of  your  house  who  should  be  grateful  to  me.” 
Then  she  walked  with  quick  firm  steps  away  from  her 
sister-in-law,  out  of  the  shade  of  the  beech-alley,  and  towards 
4he  dancers  in  the  sunlight  on  the  lawn. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

John  Vernon,  having  accompanied  his  visitor  to  her  cats 
tiage,  had  walked  slowly  back  to  his  little  house.  He  had 
, felt  infinitely  more  emotion  than  he  had  shown  to  her,  for 
although  not  unexpected,  the  tidings  she  brought  to  him  had 
been  none  the  less  cruel.  And  he  felt,  as  he  had  said  to  her, 
that  all  intervention  would  be  useless,  worse  than  useless. 
When  two  lives  are  drifting  apart,  their  own  regrets  or  re* 


226 


GUILDEROY . 


lentings  can  yet  unite  them,  but  the  interference  of  any  other 
can  only  send  them  wider  asunder. 

He  sat  down  again  in  his  willow  chair,  with  the  sunshine 
about  him  and  the  bees  buzzing  in  the  honeysuckles.  His 
left  hand  was  still  closed  unconsciously  on  the  letter  from 
his  dead  cousin’s  lawyers.  The  emotions  of  pleasure  and 
pain  had  exhausted  him  ; they  were  the  perils  against  which 
he  had  always  been  warned.  His  tranquil  life  amongst  hi* 
books  had  alone  preserved  so  long  his  fragile  cord  of  life. 

As  he  looked  at  the  gay  sunshine  with  the  gnats  and  the 
dies  dancing  in  it,  the  tangle  of  green  boughs  through  which 
the  blue  of  the  sea  was  shining,  the  fragrant  sweetbriar  and 
southern-wood  where  two  little  blue  tomtits  were  flitting,  to 
him  there  seemed  so  much — ah,  how  much ! — that  was  un- 
utterably beautiful  in  existence.  Why  would  youth  and 
manhood  fret  themselves  away  in  the  fierce  and  heated  fur- 
nace of  passions,  which  were  no  sooner  attained  and  enjoyed 
than  they  lost  all  power  to  charm  ? If  youth  would  only  be- 
lieve how  much  else  there  is  to  enjoy  ! If  age,  which  does 
know,  had  not  lost  the  power  to  enjoy  all ! 

u Sijeunesse  savait!  sivieillessepouvait ! ” he  murmured, 
in  the  old  trite,  true,  sad  words  of  human  existence  which 
has  no  sooner  time  to  learn  its  secret  than  it  has  to  pass 
away  where  there  is  no  more  use  for  its  hardly  acquired 
knowledge.  What  cruelty  and  mockery  there  were  in  this 
brief  saying  ! If  he  could  only  put  his  own  knowledge,  his 
own  patience,  his  own  experience  into  the  heart  of  his  child ! 

He  felt  tired  and  sad,  and  the  pleasantness  of  the  little  gift 
of  Fortune  which  had  come  to  him  was  forgotten  in  an  ach- 
ing anxiety  for  the  fate  of  one  dearer  than  himself. 

“ If  she  be  ever  be  forced  to  leave  him,”  he  thought,  u she 
will  be  too  proud  to  keep  her  dowry  and  she  will  have  this  to 
live  on ; it  is  well  so  far.” 

The  afternoon  was  very  warm  and  sultry  ; there  was  no 
sound  but  of  the  buzzing  of  the  bees  and  the  murmur  of  the 
sea  on  the  shore.  He  listened  to  that  sound,  which  seemed 
like  the  beating  of  the  heart  of  Nature. 

u If  we  could  listen  more  to  that  and  less  to  our  own,  we 
should  be  happier  while  we  live,  and  readier  for  death,”  he 
thought,  as  he  leaned  his  head  back  in  the  chair  and  closed 
his  eyes.  He  felt  very  weary.  He  rested  there  very  quietly. 

The  hours  passed  and  the  sun  sank  down,  and  the  little 


GUILDEROY.  22t 

birds  in  the  sweetbriar  and  southern-wood  began  to  think  of 
their  bedtime,  safe  under  their  abode  of  leaves. 

The  dog  at  his  feet  looked  anxiously  up  at  him  from  time 
to  time.  The  reflection  from  the  setting  sun  shone  on  his 
face,  which  was  very  white  and  very  calm,  and  there,  when 
the  shadows  of  the  evening  came  about  him,  his  old  servant 
found  him  sleeping.  He  had  died  in  his  sleep  without  a 
pang.  There  was  the  shadow  of  a smile  on  his  pale  lips. 

He  had  gone  in  peace  to  the  great  majority,  whither  had 
gone  before  him  the  great  souls  whom  he  had  loved  in  life. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

At  Ladysrood  the  long  dinner  was  over  by  half  an  hour ; 
the  drawing-rooms  were  filled  with  gay  groups ; there  was 
the  sound  of  pleasant  laughter  and  of  sweet  voices,  and  of  the 
beautiful  melody  of  Wagner’s  Spinning  Chorus,  which  was 
scarcely  listened  to  or  heeded  by  anyone.  In  the  midst  of 
that  soft  animation  and  polished  mirth,  the  groom  of  the 
chambers,  bending  low  to  his  master,  murmured  an  almost 
inaudible  word ; Guilderoy  grew  very  pale,  and  with  a hur- 
ried phrase  of  apology,  left  his  guests.  In  the  library  he 
found  the  old  gardener  of  Cliristslea.  who  had  come  thitherto 
tell  him  that  John  Vernon  was  dead. 

“ God  forgive  me  ! ” was  his  first  thought.  “ Will  heeYQT 
forgive  me  if  he  be  gone  where  he  can  know  all  ? ” 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

* My  child  you  and  I have  lost  the  best  friend  we  had  on 
earth.  Let  us  endeavor  to  live  together  as  he  would  most 
have  wished  us  to  do,r  said  Guilderoy  with  sincere  emotionf 
tvhen  he  had  left  all  that  was  mortal  of  John  Vernon  in  thg 
little  graveyard  by  the  sea  at  Christslea. 


m 


6 till  DEB  or. 


She  sighed ; she  did  not  respond. 

The  party  at  Ladysrood  had  of  course  been  broken  up  im- 
mediately, and  there  was  no  question  for  the  moment  of  the 
arrival  of  the  Duchess  Soria.  Of  the  personal  impatience 
which  he  felt  at  this  disappointment  to  himself,  Guilderoy 
gave  no  sign  to  his  wife.  He  was  sincerely  sorry  for  he^ 
and  he  forebore  from  any  kind  of  word  or  hint  which  could 
have  added  to  her  sorrow.  He  was  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  wholly  unselfish.  But  the  consciousness  that  he  was  do- 
ing his  duty  did  not  prevent  the  tedium  of  those  solitary  days 
of  mourning  from  weighing  heavily  on  his  spirits,  and  taxing 
his  patience  cruelly.  He  was  wholly  unused  to  either  the 
sensation  or  the  spectacle  of  pain. 

In  the  overwhelming  shock  and  grief  to  her  of  her  father’s 
death,  all  other  memories  and  feelings  had  been  for  the  time 
forgotten  or  thrust  aside.  Guilderoy  had  shown  to  her  in 
her  suffering  a genuine  tenderness  and  sympathy,  which  had 
been  wholly  unaffected,  as  he  himself  bitterly  regretted  the 
loss  of  one  whom  he  had  regarded  with  affection,  and  whose 
loss  was  irreparable  he  knew  to  her,  perhaps  to  them  both. 
The  cottage  at  Christlsea  had  been  the  one  temple  of  peace  in 
which  neither  of  them  would  ever  have  been  ashamed  to  con- 
fess error  and  seek  reconciliation.  But  John  Yernon  was 
dead,  and  all  that  remained  to  them  of  him  were  his  books 
and  papers — his  written  and  printed  thoughts — and  the  letter 
which  had  been  found  in  his  dead  hand. 

He  was  moved  to  greater  regret  when  he  read  and  arranged 
the  innumerable  papers  which  Yernon  had  left  behind  him, 
and  felt  conscious  at  every  line,  of  how  much  nobility  of  mind 
and  rich  maturity  of  intellect  were  quenched  forever  under 
the  wild  thyme  and  moss  which  covered  the  little  burial-place 
where  he  lay. 

Guilderoy  did  not  share  that  hope  which  sustained  the 
souls  of  Socrates  and  Plato,  and  which  the  soul  of  John 
Yernom  had  drunk  in  from  theirs.  To  him  it  seemed  that 
quand  on  est  mort  dest  pour  longtemps  : a time  so  long  that 
it  stretches  on  to  all  which  mortals  can  conceive  as  forever. 
And  his  eyes  were  often  wet  with  tears  as  he  turned  over  the 
manuscripts  of  his  dead  friend. 

The  sincerity  of  his  own  sorrow  did  not  diminish  the  in- 
tolerable sense  of  dreariness  with  which  these  late  summer 
weeks  at  Ladysrood  filled  him.  On  the  contrary,  he  became 
impatient,  even  of  his  own  regrets : he  was  so  wholly  unused 


GUILDEROT.  ' 229 

to  harbor  as  a guest  any  thought  or  emotion  which  was  not 
pleasurable  that  he  resented  his  own  pain. 

These  long  silent  summer  hours  in  this  house  of  mourning, 
with  £he  figure  of  Gladys  in  its  long  black  robes  always  be- 
fore him,  and  no  other  distraction  possible,  tried  almost  beyond 
endurance  the  good  resolutions  which  he  had  silently  formed 
as  /ie  looked  on  the  pale  serene  countenance  of  Vernon  lying 
in  his  last  sleep  on  his  narrow  bed,  with  the  lattice  of  his 
chamber  open  to  the  blue  sky,  the  twittering  birds,  the  quiver- 
ng  leaves,  the  murmurous  sea. 

A man  of  his  temperament  is  quickly  touched  to  fine  issues, 
to  honest  regrets,  to  tender  resolves  ; but  there  is  no  power 
on  earth  which  can  secure  his  adhesion  to  them. 

He  showed  her  the  most  sincere  sympathy  in  her  grief,  and 
was  even  perfectly  patient  with  its  intensity  and  long  dura- 
tion. He  had  felt  the  truest  admiration  and  attachment  on 
his  own  part  for  her  father,  and  had  always  felt  that  Vernon 
would  do  much  to  smooth  and  dissipate  any  difficulty  which 
might  arise  between  himself  and  her.  The  philosophical,  in- 
dulgent, and  temperate  influence  of  such  a mind  had  had  a 
sway  over  himself  which  he  knew  to  be  the  most  beneficial  he 
had  ever  felt.  It  left  a painful  void  even  in  his  own  life  to 
feel  that  that  wise  and  serene  friend  had  forever  passed  out 
of  sight  and  hearing. 

Eearlier,  ever  so  little  earlier,  she  would  have  responded  to 
his  efforts,  the  frost  of  her  heart  would  have  melted  under  the 
first  sunbeam  of  a kind  word  ; but  now  the  remembrance  of 
what  his  sister  had  told  her  was  ever  dominant.  It  haunted 
her  night  and  day ; guided  by  its  cruel  indication  she  real- 
ized a thousand  words  and  signs  which  were  confirmation 
true.  She  recollected  that  her  husband’s  abandonment  of 
the  colonial  adventuress  had  been  contemporary  with  the 
arrival  of  the  Duchess  Soria  in  England.  His  desire  that 
she  should  be  invited  to  Ladysrood  ; his  tone  in  speaking  of 
her  ; his  preoccupation  and  visible  anxiety  for  her  pleasure 
and  her  presence — all  these  recurred  to  her  memory  with 
overwhelming  and  indisputable  testimony  to  the  truth  of 
Hilda  Sunbury’s  words. 

Hilda  Sunbury  herself  had  felt  a pang  very  kindred  to  re- 
morse when  she  heard,  where  she  stood  in  the  brilliant  draw- 
ing-room of  Ladysrood,  that  Vernon  had  been  found  dead 
after  sunset.  Perhaps  she  had  hastened  his  end  ; she  knew 
that  she  had  distressed  him  and  there  was  constantly  sound 


230 


GU1LDEROY. 


ing  in  her  ear  his  bidding,  “ Be  kind  to  her.”  Had  it  been 
kind  to  have  said  what  she  had  said  to  her  brother’s  wife  ? 
Would  it  not  have  been  well  if  she  hadobeyed  the  dead  man’s 
caution  and  counsel  ? Her  conscience  told  her  that  it  would ; 
and  she  was  glad  to  excuse  herself  to  Guilderoy,  and  hasten 
from  his  house  on  a plea  of  urgent  matters  needing  her  pres- 
ence at  her  own  home. 

She  was  uneasy  at  what  she  had  herself  done  ; she  was 
sensible  that  it  had  been  neither  wise  nor  laudable : that  what- 
ever she  knew  or  thought  she  knew,  should  have  been  kept  in 
her  own  breast.  But  she  had  been  unable  to  help  a restless  de- 
sire to  have  her  share  of  influence  in  the  life  at  Ladysrood,  and 
though  she  was  not  conscious  of  it,  unity  between  her  brother 
and  his  wife  would  have  been  intolerable  to  her.  She  had  never 
been  able  to  pardon  the  manner  in  which,  from  the  very  first 
hour,  so  very  young  a woman  as  Gladys  had  passively  avoided 
her  efforts  at  direction  and  tacitly  rejected  her  suggestions. 
From  the  moment  she  had  presented  her  at  Court  she  had  felt 
that  her  brother’s  wife  would  yield  to  her  in  nothing. 

“ Then  she  is  all  alone  in  the  world  henceforward ! ” said 
Aubrey,  when  he  heard  of  John  Yernon’s  death. 

“ Alone ! How  can  you  talk  in  such  a manner  ? ” said 
Lady  Sunbury,  greatly  annoyed.  In  herself  she  blamed  her 
brother  endlessly  and  pitilessly ; but  she  would  have  resented 
as  the  greatest  of  personal  insults  a hint  from  anyone  else 
that  he  was  ever  so  slightly  blamable. 

“I  know  no  one  more  entirely  alone,”  said  Aubrey,  very 
gravely. 

“ Will  you  console  her  solitude  ? ” it  was  on  Lady  Sun- 
bury’s  lips  to  ask;  but  the  respect  she  had  for  her  cousin, 
both  as  a man  and  a statesman,  restrained  her  for  once  from 
an  unpleasant  and  imprudent  utterance. 

“Her  father  might  possibly  have  restraineu  j.ier  from 
follies  ! ” she  observed  instead. 

“ Is  she  disposed  towards  folly  ? ” asked  Aubrey.  “ I have 
seen  few  women  so  young  so  wise.” 

“You  admire  all  she  does  ! ” 

“ I confess  I think  she  conducts  herself  in  what  are  fre- 
quently very  difficult  circumstances,  with  great  tact  and  for- 
bearance, very  unusual  in  any  one  of  her  years.  I think  she  is 
far  from  blind  to  Evelyn’s  caprices,  but  she  has  the  good 
sense  to  affect  to  be  so.” 


guilderoy.  231 

46  It  is  the  least  she  can  do  in  return  for  all  he  has  done 
for  her.” 

“ My  dear  Hilda,  what  a vulgar  sentiment ! If  he  had 
not  married  her,  men  quite  as  good  as  he  would  have  done 

so.” 

“Would  you?”  asked  Lady  Sunbury,  with  her  most  un- 
pleasant expression  and  accent. 

Aubrey  raised  his  languid  eyes  and  looked  her  full  in  the 
face. 

“If  I had  happened  to  meet  her — yes,”  he  replied  coldly. 

“ He  is  in  love  with  her!”  thought  his  cousin,  outraged 
and  disgusted ; and  she  began  to  meditate  how  far  it  was 
possible  to  give  any  hint  of  it  to  Guilderoy. 

In  a few  weeks  the  solitude  grew  unendurable  to  Lim.  He 
was  wholly  unused  not  to  have  the  voices  of  the  world  around 
him,  and  the  constant  sight  of  a sorrow  which  he  could  do 
nothing  to  relieve  depressed  and  distressed  him  beyond  en- 
durance. A heartless  man  would  have  felt  it  much  less  ; but 
Guilderoy  was  never  heartless,  though  he  frequently  made 
the  hearts  of  others  ache. 

Even  a great  passion,  if  he  had  been  capable  of  it,  would 
have  found  him  after  its  first  ecstasies  easily  diverted  from  it 
by  the  attractions  of  minor  emotions  and  of  passing  interests. 

Life  had  been  full  of  pleasant  temptations  to  him,  and  he 
had  never  acquired  the  habit  of  avoiding  these  or  of  keeping 
steadfastly  to  any  path. 

He  could  do  nothing  to  console  her.  She  abandoned  her- 
self to  her  grief  with  a forgetfulness  of  all  else  which  was  in 
its  way  as  selfish  as  was  his  desire  to  get  away  from  the 
sight  of  her  grief.  Her  father  had  been  the  centre  and  sup- 
port of  her  whole  life.  She  reproached  herself  passionately 
with  having  ever  believed  that  she  was  unhappy  so  long  as 
the  sweetness  and  wisdom  of  his  life  were  with  her. 

He  grew  impatient  of  seclusion  and  the  sight  of  sorrow 
She  was  too  young  to  be  left  by  herself,  and  she  had  no  re- 
latives who  could  be  invited  to  remain  with  her.  Between 
his  sister  and  herself  he  knew  that  little  harmony  or  sym- 
pathy existed. 

“If  you  would  come  away  somewhere  it  would  distract  you; 
chere  are  many  countries  you  have  never  seen.  I will  take 
you  where  you  choose;  a voyage  might  do  much  to  calm  you,” 
he  said  to  her  one  morning,  in  the  seventh  week  after  Vernon’s 
death,  But  she  could  not  be  persuaded  to  leave  Lad/srood, 


232 


GUILDEROY. 


and  made  her  daily  pilgrimage  to  the  grave  at  Christslsa, 

“ I cannot  go  into  the  world ; do  not  ask  me,”  she  said 
again  and  again  to  him.  “ Go  you,  if  you  wish.” 

“ Remember  that  you  are  the  first  to  suggest  it,”  he  replied. 

Not  pleased  at  the  permission  given  him,  though  longing 
for  the  liberty  which  it  awarded,  he  added  with  hesitation  : — . 

“ The  world  will  think  it  strange  if  I leave  you  so  soon.” 

“ What  does  that  matter,  she  said,  unconsciously  repeating 
Socrates’  question  : — “ Is  it  worth  while  to  think  so  much  of 
the  opinion  of  others  ? ” 

“I  have  no  wish  for  my  friends  to  suppose  that  I am  urn 
kind  or  that  yon  are  deserted,”  said  Guilderoy,  impatiently. 
“ You  have  already,  my  dear,  had  a certain  manner,  a certain 
air,  which  have  suggested  as  much  to  some  people.  I quite 
understand  how  wretched  you  feel  under  this  irreparable  loss, 
but  I have  never  understood  why  you  always  looked  so  little 
happy  before  it.  Very  few  women  would  quarrel  with  the 
life  you  lead ; and  if  you  have  any  wishes  of  which  I am  un- 
aware you  have  only  to  name  them.  They  shall  be  gratified.” 

“ You  are  very  good.” 

“ That  is  not  the  language  which  you  should  use  to  me.  It 
is  language  ridiculous  in  the  relations  we  bear  to  one  another. 
There  is  no  question  of  goodness.  You  are  my  wife,  and  it 
is  my  pleasure  as  well  as  my  right  to  give  you  whatever  it 
may  be  in  my  power  to  give.” 

“ Is  fidelity  in  your  power  ? ” 

She  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes  as  she  spoke.  She  was 
standing  before  him  in  the  sunshine  ; her  black  gown  fell 
about  her  in  long,  slim,  severe  folds,  her  face  was  pale  with 
long  weeping,  and  there  were  dark  circles  under  her  eyes. 
There  was  a look  on  her  face  wistful  and  yet  resolute,  pa- 
thetic  and  yet  stern. 

“ Fidelity  ! ” repeated  Guilderoy. 

It  was  a strange  inquiry,  and  one  which  left  him  at  a loss 
to  answer  it.  “ Who  has  been  talking  to  her  ? ” he  won- 
dered. 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  same  unchanging  gaze,  and 
her  eyes  tried  to  read  his  very  soul. 

“ Have  you  been  faithful  to  me  ? ” she  asked.  “ I will 
believe  you  if  you  say  that  you  have.” 

“ My  dear  ! ” he  was  embarrassed  and  unnerved.  He  felt 
is  face  grow  warm ; a hot  flush  rose  in  his  cheeks,  his  eyes 
avoided  hers;  and  he  hesitated  to  reply.  “Why  do  you 


GUILDER  or.  233 

ask  such  questions  ? ” he  said  with  petulance.  “ No  man 
ever  tells  the  truth  in  reply  to  them.” 

“You  have  told  it  to  me  now,”  said  Gladys,  coldly;  and 
said  nothing  more. 

She  stood  quite  still,  and  looked  at  him,  and  he  avoided 
her  gaze. 

“ And  the  Duchess  Soria  ? ” she  asked.  “ Is  it  true  that 
you  wished  me  to  invite  her  here,  because — ” 

He  interrupted  her  passionately. 

“ Hush ! I forbid  you  to  speak  her  name  to  me  ? ” 

“Why  ? Because  you  have  loved  her  ? ” 

“ Because  she  is  the  only  woman  I have  really  loved  in  all 
my  life.  God  help  me  ! ” 

There  was  that  sound  of  true  and  passionate  feeling  in  his 
Toice  which  she  had  never  heard  from  him  for  herself ; such 
a tone  is  unmistakable,  is  irresistible  ; it  carries  its  own  truth 
and  its  own  secret  with  it  in  overwhelming  witness  to  the 
most  unwilling  ear. 

“VbusVavezvoulu!”  he  said  with  violence.  “It  is  al- 
ways so  with  women.  One  spares  them — would  screen  them 
— would  keep  them  in  peace — and  they  will  not  be  content  with 
that.  Th^y  will  ask  and  suspect,  and  prate  and  irritate,  un- 
til they  are  wounded  by  the  very  thing  they  need  have  never 
known,  but  for  their  own  insatiate  curiosity,  their  own  rest- 
less and  unpitying  jealousy!  It  is  always  so.” 

He  was  passionately  angered ; angered  with  himself  be- 
cause he  had  betrayed  a secret  which  did  not  only  concern  him- 
self, and  angered  with  her  because  she  had  driven  him  into 
one  of  those  positions  in  whi  h a man  rn^st  dishonor  him- 
self in  his  own  sight,  eithe  by  falsehood  or  confession. 

“ If  you  loved  her,  why  did  you  affect  to  love  me  ? ” she 
asked. 

Her  voice  and  her  attitude  were  unnaturally  calm,  but 
her  eyes  had  a look  in  them  which  he  did  not  care  to  meet. 

“ I affected  nothing  ! ” he  answered  with  entire  sincerity. 
“ I thought  I loved  you  ; I thought  at  least  that  I loved  you 
enough  to  be  happy  with  you.  They  always  say,  the  hap- 
piest marriages  are  passionless.  I was  entirely  honest  in 
all  I said  to  you  and  in  all  I said  to  your  father.  I never  told 
you  I had  not  loved  other  women  ; I never  told  you  that  I 
should  not  love  others.  No  man  can  give  those  pledges  if 
he  is  sincere  in  what  he  says. 

He  spoke  with  force  and  warmth  and  perfect  truth  j 


234  ' GUlLDEnor. 


whether  he  were  wrong  or  right  in  what  he  said  he  believed 
in  his  own  words,  and  he  intended  neither  subterfuge  nor 
apology.  He  honestly  regretted  the  pain  which  he  inflicted, 
and  he  was  wholly  candid  in  the  expressions  of  his  own 
emotions.  They  were  things  which  he  had  long  thought, 
long  felt,  but  which  he  would  never  have  said  to  her  um 
less  she  had  forced  ^ him  to  it  by  injudicious  interroga. 
tion.  He  had  been  willing  to  keep  her  in  the  calm  outei 
courts  of  courteous  intercourse  and  social  conventionalities. 
If  she  had  forced  her  way,  despite  him,  into  the  hidden 
recesses  of  his  soul,  she  could  not  blame  him  if  she  found 
another  name  the  talisman  there  and  not  her  own. 

“ I have  never  intentionally  spoken  an  unkind  word  t<t 
you,”  he  went  on  after  a moment’s  silence.  “ I have  been 
delighted  to  gratify  all  fancies  and  wishes  that  you  ever  ex. 
pressed,  or  that  I could  ever  divine.  You  have  not  had  tha{ 
pliability  and  amiability  which  one  looked  for  from  one  sq 
young ; but  I have  never  uttered  a word  to  any-  living  being 
which  could  allow  them  to  imagine  that  I blamed  you.  1 
have  given  you  every  outward  respect,  every  possible  com 
sideration  ; if  you  have  not  known  how,  or  have  not  cared,  U 
win  my  affections  and  my  confidence,  I think  I am  justified 
in  saying  that  it  is  not  more  my  fault  than  it  is  yours.  Lov% 
cannot  be  stoned,  or  bullied,  or  worried  into  existence  ov 
duration.  All  women  forget  that  too  often.” 

He  rose  and  walked  impatientlv  to  and  fro  for  a fe^ 
moments. 

She  stood  quite  still  in  the  same  attitude.  She  was  very 
pale,  otherwise  she  betrayed  no  emotion. 

“I  regret  that  you  have  forced  me  to  say  those  things,”  he 
said  after  a moment’s  silence.  u They  are  always  painful  to 
the  speaker  and  the  hearer  alike,  and  no  possible  good  can 
ever  come  from  agitating  and  embittering  scenes.  Such 
scenes  are  the  abhorrence  of  my  life.  Every  man  loathes 
them,  and  I most  of  all.  In  our  position  no  possible  good 
can  come  from  mutual  recrimination.  Between  lovers  such 
disputes  may  be  the  resurrection  of  a buried  love.  But  be- 
tween people  who  are  bound  together  merely  by  honor,  in- 
terest, and  society,  they  can  only  produce  the  most  fatal 
estrangement.  I have  wished  honestly  that  you  should  be 
happy,  and  if  you  are  not  so,  it  is  as  much  my  misfortune 
as  it  is  yours.  It  may  be  also  my  fault.  I do  not  say  that 
it  is  not.  But  it  is  a fault  of  temperament,  and  not  of  will/ 


GTJILDEUOY. 


235 


\ 

He  waited  for  some  answer  from  her,  but  she  said  nothing. 

She  stood  with  one  hand . resting  on  the  marble  column, 
and  she  might  have  been  made  he  rself  of  marble,  so  still 
and  so  cold  she  seemed. 

He  waited  a moment  more,  looked  at  her  in  hesitation, 
then  with  a bow  he  passed  and  left  her.  He  knew  that  he 
had  said  what  could  not  be  effaced  from  her  memory,  and 
what  must  forever  be  like  a barrier  of  ice  between  them. 
Yet  if  even  at  that  moment  she  had  touched  his  heart  or  his 
conscience  in  any  way,  if  she  had  shown  anything  of  the 
warmth  and  tenderness  which  are  the  very  life-blood  of  a 
woman’s  love,  he  would  have  been  ready  to  meet  it  so  far  as 
his  feelings  could  have  been  controlled  to  meet  it.  He  would 
have  been  ready  to  say  to  her,  “We  are  both  sacrificed  to 
the  mistaken  laws  of  the  world ; let  us  pity  each  other  and 
bear  with  each  other,  and  be  friends  if  we  can  be  nothing 
im  e/r 

But  she  had  said  nothing ; and  she  had  kept  that  attitude 
of  coldness,  of  disdain,  of  offence,  which  had  in  it  neither 
invitation  nor  indulgence.  She  had  no  compassion  because 
she  had  no  comprehension ; and  she  had  been  so  wholly  ab- 
sorbed in  the  intensity  of  her  own  pain  that  she  had  had  no 
knowledge  that  it  might  still  have  been  possible  to  save 
something  from  this  wreck  of  all  her  hopes.  When  women 
see  the  treasure  of  their  lives  founder  they  drown  with  it. 
They  do  not  even  try  to  save  what  they  might. 

G-uilderoy  did  not  seek  to  explain  or  to  apologize.  His  con- 
science was  stung,  and  he  was  angered  with  himself  for 
having  been  betrayed  into  such  embarrassment.  What  idiots 
women  were ! always  seeking  to  know  things  which  made 
their  misery  when  known,  never  letting  well  alone,  never 
accepting  the  conventional  untruths  with  which  any  well- 
bred  man  is  careful  to  cover  his  errors,  always  breaking  with 
rash  steps  the  thin  ice  which  alone  separates  them  from  the 
bottomless  waters  of  suspicion  and  jealousy  ! 

He  paced  to  and  fro  the  west  terrace  with  anger  and  a 
kind  of  contrition  in  his  thoughts.  Why  would  she  ask 
those  home  questions  ? Why  would  she  try  to  penetrate 
his  very  soul  with  the  gaze  of  her  great,  luminous,  serious 
eyes  ? Why  could  she  not  take  all  he  gave  her — his  kindliness, 
his  respect,  his  courtesy,  his  outward  observance,  his  occa- 
sional embraces,  and  not  endeavor  to  probe  further  into  ths 


236 


GUILDEROYr. 


secrets  of  his  inner  life,  and  the  mysteries  of  the  male 
passions  ? 

Good  heavens  ! Had  she  not  a life  full  enough,  brilliant 
enough,  envied  enough,  to  occupy  her  and  content  her  without 
her  requiring  his  erotic  fidelity  as  though  he  were  some  sigh- 
ing Strephon  to  her  maiden  Chloris  ? Why  would  women 
always  make  themselves  wretched  by  demanding  the  impossi- 
ble, and  trying  to  enter  the  closed  chambers  of  men’s  follies  ? 

“And  I was  really  willing  to  endeavor  to  be  to  her  what 
Yernon  would  have  wished,”  he  thought  with  a sense  of  in- 
justice done  to  himself. 

Why  were  women  always  like  that  ? Always  rejecting  the 
pearls  you  brought  them  because  you  would  not,  or  could 
not,  give  them  a roc’s  egg  ? 

“ Marriage  is  such  a totally  different  thing  to  what  she 
thinks  it,”  he  said  to  himself.  “ It  is  a community  of  in- 
terests ; a union  of  externals : a method  of  continuing  the 
race  and  of  consolidating  property ; it  is  not  a life-long  wor- 
ship of  Eros,  with  an  eternal  song  of  6 Evoe  Hymen  ! ’ ” 

He  was  incensed,  and  nursed  his  fiction  of  injustice  to 
himself,  not  to  look  closer  at  the  injustice  to  her  of  which 
his  conscience  whispered. 

It  was  the  same  season  of  the  year,  almost  the  same  day 
of  the  month,  as  that  on  which  he  had  first  spoken  to  his  sister 
of  his  intention  to  marry  John  Vernon’s  daughter.  Good 
heavens  ! Why  had  he  given  away  liberty  and  peace  and 
independence  of  action  only  because  a child  had  had  a lovely 
face,  like  a picture  by  Romney,  and  because  he  had  had 
vague  impressions  that  he  wished  his  own  son  to  reign  after 
him  at  Ladysrood  ! Into  what  irrevocable  imprisonment  had 
not  his  senses  and  his  sentimentality  hurried  him ! 

But  who  could  ever  have  supposed  that  a woman  so  young, 
and  reared  in  such  rural  seclusion,  would  have  had  so  much 
penetration,  so  much  prescience,  so  much  worldly  wisdom, 
and  such  an  obstinate  refusal  to  be  deceived ! 

“ I have  always  been  most  careful  to  show  her  every  out- 
ward respect,”  he  thought ; and  it  seemed  to  him  that  she 
was  unreasonable,  and  he  himself  harshly  treated.  He  would 
always  have  liked  her,  always  have  felt  affection  for  her,  if 
she  had  only  been  more  facile,  more  pliant,  more  easily 
moulded  to  what  he  required. 

What  could  it  matter  to  her  if  his  fancies  went  elsewhere  ? 
He  could  not  see  that  it  really  mattered  anything. 


GU1LDEB0Y. 


231 


If  there  were  any  very  great  scandal,  if  he  left  her  openly  for 
anyone,  if  he  insulted  her  in  public  by  admiration  for  some 
actress  or  some  adventuress,  then  he  could  have  understood 
that  she  would  have  felt  wronged,  and  the  world  would  have 
been  with  her.  But  as  it  was,  as  he  had  always  been  care- 
ful to  do  none  of  these  things,  he  could  not  admit  to  him- 
self that  she  had  any  injury  at  all. 

He  had  remained  beside  her  entirely  out  of  sympathy  and 
good  feeling,  he  had  honestly  desired  to  regulate  their  future 
lives  to  be  in  accord  and  outward  harmony,  if  in  no  deeper 
tenderness,  and  his  only  reward  had  been  that  she  had  asked 
him  a direct  and  intolerable  question  which  he  had  been  too 
honest  a gentleman  to  answer  with  a lie  ! 

He  was  profoundly  angered ; the  more  profoundly  because 
his  inner  consciousness  was  not  blameless.  If  he  had  loved 
her,  most  probably  he  would  have  sought  her,  have  thrown 
himself  at  her  feet,  and  confessed  his  infidelities  : but  it  is 
only  men  who  love  very  tenderly  who  are  thus  repentant,  and 
he  had  no  kind  of  love  for  her.  The  little  he  had  ever  had 
had  died  out  after  six  months’  possession. 

As  it  was  he  went  into  his  library,  wrote  her  a brief  note, 
and  giving  a few  orders  to  his  body-servant  to  follow  him, 
he  had  his  horse  brought  round  and  rode  over  the  moors  to 
the  nearest  railway.  His  note  merely  said  : — 

My  Dear  Gladys, — It  will  be  as  well  for  us  not  to  see 
one  another  for  a little  while.  You  are  mistress  of  yourself 
and  of  Ladysrood.  I shall  probably  go  to  Aix-fes-Bains.  If 
you  will  address  to  me  at  the  Embassy  in  Paris,  I will  tell 
them  to  forward  my  letters,  as  I am  not  quite  sure  whither 
I may  turn  my  steps.  I hope  to  find  you  in  better  health  on 
my  return.  You  cannot  doubt  my  profound  sympathy  in  the 
loss  you  have  sustained. 

“ Ever  yours, 

“ Evelyn.” 

The  note,  when  he  wrote  it,  seemed  to  him  a masterpiece 
of  courtesy,  kindliness,  dignity,  and  implied  rebuke. 

It  seemed  to  her,  when  she  received  it,  the  acme  of  indif- 
ference, negligence,  heartlessness,  and  insult.  It  was  in  real 
truth  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  being  the  mere  announce- 
ment of  the  fact  of  his  departure,  with  the  other  fact  of  his 
annoyance  and  offence  conveyed  through  its  conventional 
worths. 


238 


GUILDEROY. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

Two  days  later,  Lady  Sunbury  arrived  at  Ladysrood,  un- 
announced, bringing  her  youngest  daughter  with  her ; a girl 
not  yet  in  the  world. 

“ My  dear,”  she  said  affectionately,  “ I saw  m the  papers 
that  my  brother  has  gone  out  of  England;  it  is  unpardonable 
of  him  to  have  left  you  alone  at  such  a time,  as  young  as  you 
are  and  the  world  so  unpleasant  as  it  is.  I have  brought 
Constance  to  stay  with  you,  and  I will  stay  myself  as  long  as 
I can.  I suppose  Evelyn  will  not  be  many  weeks  away. 
Where  has  he  gone  ? ” 

Gladys  answered  her  with  what  composure  and  apparent 
carelessness  she  could. 

The  presence  of  her  sister-in-law  was  very  painful  to  her. 
She  could  not  forget  that  what  Hilda  Sunbury  had  told  her 
in  the  elm-walk  on  the  day  of  her  father’s  death  had  brought 
about  the  scene  with  Guilderoy  which  had  separated  them 
more  hopelessly  than  they  had  ever  been  separated  before. 

Lady  Sunbury  was  at  this  moment  moved  by  the  most  ex- 
cellent motives,  and  actuated  by  a sense  of  self-blame  which  was 
almost  remorse.  It  would  have  been  remorse  in  a character 
less  certain  of  its  own  perfections  than  was  hers.  She  knew 
that  she  had  pained  and  distressed  John  Vernon  needlessly 
in  the  last  hours  of  his  life,  and  she  heard  often  in  memory 
those  farewell  words  of  his,  ‘ Be  kind  to  her.’  She  was  con- 
scious that  she  had  not  been  kind  to  her  brother’s  wife.  She 
knew  that  she  had  worried,  annoyed  and  wounded  her  many 
a time,  and  that  in  what  she  had  revealed  to  her  concerning 
the  Duchess  Soria,  she  had  been  mainly  instrumental  in 
bringing  about  what  her  own  penetration  suspected  to  be  the 
cause  of  Guilderoy’s  sudden  departure  from  England. 

She  was  an  admirably  conscientious  woman,  though  like 
so  many  conscientious  persons  she  was  wholly  ignorant  that 
she  was  often  intensely  disagreeable,  and  even  at  times  very 
dangerous,  from  the  unwise  and  irritating  things  which  her 
conscience  impelled  her  to  say  and  to  do. 

In  coming  to  Ladysrood  she  was  sincerely  desirous  to  put 
the  aegis  of  her  own  presence  there,  and  that  of  her  young 


GUILDEROY. 


53l> 

daughter,  "between  Gladys  and  the  evil  comments  of  the 
world.  It  had  been  inconvenient  to  her  to  leave  her  own 
great  house  of  Illington  at  that  moment,  and  to  sacrifice 
many  important  social  engagements  ; hut  she  had  made  the 
sacrifice  with  the  most  admirable  intentions,  and  with  that 
great  regard  for  the  reputation  of  the  head  of  her  family 
which  Guilderoy  had  so  often,  and  so  hardly  tried.  But  all 
the  purity  and  integrity  of  her  intentions  could  not  make  her 
presence  otherwise  than  an  intense  irritation  and  oppression 
to  her  brother’s  wife. 

All  wounded  animals  long  to  be  alone  ; and  solitude  would 
have  been  the  only  possible  balm  to  the  wounds  of  Gladys ; 
stung  to  the  quick  as  she  was  by  pain,  and  missing,  as  she 
did  every  hour  of  her  life,  the  sense  of  the  near  presence  of 
her  father’s  wise  and  gentle  influence.  The  constant  sound 
of  Lady  Sunbury’s  voice,  reiterating  as  it  did  all  maxims  of 
worldly  wisdom,  and  shrewd,  cold,  common  sense,  became  to 
her  a positive  torture  which  intensified  all  other  suffering  in 
her.  The  presence  even  of  the  young  girl,  who  was  impa- 
tient of  the  dulness  of  Ladysrood,  and  full  of  all  those  arti- 
ficial and  worldly  longings  which  fill  the  breasts  of  debutantes f 
was  an  additional  trial  to  her.  Sorrow  is  bad  enough  at  any 
time  to  bear;  but  its  bitterness  is  tenfold  when  we  cannot 
shut  ourselves  up  with  it  in  peace,  but  must  at  every  moment 
listen  to  a never-ending  stream  of  commonplace  remarks, 
and  affect  sympathy  with  commonplace  desires  and  regrets. 
The  curiosity  of  Lady  Sunbury,  moreover,  was  keen;  and 
without  descending  absolutely  to  the  coarseness  of  question- 
ing, she  endeavored,  by  every  indirect  means  in  her  power, 
to  discover  what  had  passed  between  Guilderoy  and  his  wife 
on  the  subject  of  Beatrice  Soria. 

But  Gladys  told  her  nothing  ; and  the  long,  quiet  days  of 
the  fading  summer  passed  in  infinite  ennui  to  the  guests,  and 
in  intolerable  weariness  of  soul  to  the  mistress  of  Ladysrood. 
The  only  peaceful  moments  which  she  knew  were  when  she 
sat  alone  by  the  grave  of  her  father  on  the  thyme-grown 
cliffs  above  the  sea  at  Christslea. 

She  felt  so  utterly  alone.  Whilst  he  had  lived  she  had 
thought  herself  wretched  indeed ; but  now  it  seemed  to  her 
that  no  hopeless  sorrow  could  ever  have  touched  her  so  long 
as  his  noble  intelligence  and  wise  affection  had  been  there 
to  shield  her  from  her  own  passions,  and  console  her  for 
their  disappointment. 


240 


GUILDEROT 


She  had  not  answered  the  letter  which  Guilderoy  had  left 
for  her  on  the  evening  of  his  departure. 

At  least  she  had  sent  no  answer.  She  had  written  scores 
of  sheets  to  him,  but  had  burned  them  all,  dissatisfied  with 
their  utter  inadequacy  to  describe  her  own  emotions. 

And  after  all  what  was  there  to  say  ? He  had  married  her 
* believing  that  he  would  care  for  her  ; and  he  had  found  him- 
self unable  to  do  so ; either  from  his  fault  or  hers,  or  neither, 
or  both.  What  matter  which  ? What  words  could  alter 
that  ? What  reproach  could  change,  or  what  entreaty  could 
regain,  his  heart  ? In  truth  it  had  never  been  hers. 

She  suffered  all  the  tortures  which  wring  the  inmost  soul 
of  a woman  who  loves  what  has  been  hers,  and  knows  that  all 
its  charms,  its  senses,  its  time,  its  emotions,  are  given  to 
others,  and  can  never  be  recalled  to  her.  Men  can  so  easily 
console  themselves  for  lost  passions  ; even  where  their  hearts 
ache,  their  physical  pleasures  can  so  easily  be  gratified  by  those 
who  do  not  touch  their  hearts,  that  they  cannot  understand 
the  wholly  irreparable  loss  that  the  desertion  of  her  lover  is 
to  a woman  who  can  only  receive  happiness  through  one 
alone.  Messalina  can  vary  her  caprices  at  will ; but  the 
woman  who  loves  with  all  her  senses  and  her  soul  can  never 
find  any  means  to  fill  up  the  blank  made  in  her  whole  life 
by  abandonment. 

To  the  mind  of  Lady  Sunbury  the  lot  of  her  sister-in-law 
still  seemed  perfectly  enviable  ; a great  position,  unlimited 
command  of  money,  and  the  power  to  do  whatever  she  liked 
unmolested,  constituted  a fate  which  to  Hilda  Sunbury,  as 
to  the  world,  appeared  one  with  which  it  was  hypercriticism 
and  ingratitude  indeed  not  to  be  content.  Well  regulated 
minds,  like  Lady  Sunbury ’s,  cannot  conceive  why  any  woman 
requires  more  than  the  tranquil  monotony  of  a blameless  life, 
large  houses  to  rule  over,  and  a purse  always  filled. 

To  these  excellent  minds  the  senses  are  sins,  the  passions 
are  follies,  and  the  besoin  d’ aimer  is  wholly  unmentionable. 
Such  gross  things  are  believed  in  and  alluded  to  by  poets, 
they  know  5 but  they  think  poets  mad,  and  at  all  events  poets 
are  no  rule  for  women  who  respect  themselves. 

This  opinion,  either  insinuated  or  more  fully  expressed, 
was  the  burden  of  all  Lady  Sunbury’s  conversation  during 
her  stay  at  Ladysrood,  at  all  such  times  as  her  daughter  was 
not  in  her  presence.  She  believed,  and  many  virtuous 
women  believe  with  her,  that  virtue  is  like  a nail  j only 


GUILDEROY,  241 

hammer  at  it  often  enough  and  long  enough  and  you  must 
end  in  driving  it  into  any  substance  whatever. 

She  knew  the  world  too  well  not  to  know  all  the  tempta- 
tions and  dangers  which  must  surround  in  it  such  a woman 
as  Gladys  when  left  alone  in  the  midst  of  its  risks  and  its 
seductions  ; and  on  these  she  dwelt,  and  on  the  duties  of  all 
women  to  resist  them  she  was  so  persistently  eloquent,  that 
she  raised  in  the  breast  of  her  hearer  a passionate  longing  to 
fling  duty  to  the  winds,  and  drove  her  more  nearly  from  pa- 
tience and  self-control  than  any  injury  could  have  done  ; 
made  her  long  as  she  had  never  longed  for  that  vengeance  of 
which  she  had  begun  of  late  to  dream.  While  every  fibre  of 
her  heart  was  aching,  and  every  pulse  of  her  existence 
seemed  throbbing  with  pain,  she  had  to  endure  as  best  she 
could  the  platitudes  and  the  stiff  sonorous  phrases  with  which 
her  guest  proclaimed  the  all-sufficing  beauties  of  virtue  and 
self-esteem. 

“If  she  would  but  leave  me  alone  !”  she  thought;  but 
this  is  just  what  women  of  Lady  Sunbury’s  type  never  do. 

The  days  and  the  weeks  passed,  and  she  heard  nothing  di- 
rectly from  Guilderoy,  although  he  wrote  to  his  steward. 
His  sister  came  and  went,  but  she  left  Lady  Constance  there 
always,  and  the  discontent  of  the  girl,  impatient  of  her  exile 
from  the  gay  gatherings  of  the  autumn  parties  at  Illington, 
mingled  with  her  premature  worldliness  and  undisguised 
selfishness,  were  almost  as  trying  to  Gladys  in  one  way  as 
the  companionship  of  the  mother  in  another. 

The  routine  of  the  tedious  days  became  almost  unendu- 
rable to  her ; the  monotonous  repetition  of  commonplace  ob- 
servations seemed  to  her  like  that  torture  in  which  a drop  of 
water  was  let  fall  on  a prisoner’s  head  every  second,  until  he 
went  mad  or  died  with  it. 

Lady  Sunbury  was  of  too  keen  an  observation  not  to  be 
well  aware  of  the  torment  her  presence  was,  but  in  the  cause 
of  duty  she  never  wavered,  and  she  considered  it  her  duty 
not  to  leave  so  young  a woman  as  her  brother’s  wife  alone ; 
and  she  sacrificed  herself  or  her  daughter  to  that  conviction 
with  that  resolution  which  made  her  so  trying  and  so  un- 
sympathetic to  those  whom  she  benefited. 

At  such  times  as  Gladys  could  get  away  from  her,  she 
passed  her  hours  at  Chris tslea,  or  shut  up  in  the  library 
writing,  and  then  destroying,  hundreds  of  letters  to  hef 
husband, 


242 


OrtxLbEBOT. 


Perhaps  if,  &V  o£  them  could  have  been  sent  to  him,  and  he 
had  had  the  patience  to  read  them,  he  would  have  reached 
more  comprehension  of  her  character  than  he  had  ever  at- 
tained. All  her  aching,  wounded,  rebellious  heart  was 
uttered  in  them  : knowing  no  other  confidant  possible,  she 
made  a confessor  of  the  reams  of  paper  which  she  spoiled. 
But  she  sent  nothing  of  what  she  wrote.  When  read  over  to 
Aerself,  they  all  seemed  too  tender  or  too  violent,  to  assert 
too  vehemently  or  to  entreat  too  piteously. 

She  had  great  pride  in  her,  and  she  could  not  bring  her- 
*jelf  to  send  to  him  anything  which  looked  like  an  appeal  of 
the  affections.  He  did  not  care  whether  she  loved  him  or 
i,ot.  Why  should  she  tell  him  that  she  did  ? 

At  times  she  remembered  that  he  had  reproached  her  with 
never  seeking  to  win  his  affections.  Was  it  true  that  shy- 
ness in  the  first  months  of  her  life  with  him,  and  pride  and 
jealousy  afterwards,  had  frozen  in  her  warmth  which  might 
have  won  his'  confidence  ? She  remembered  that  her  father 
even  had  chaiged  her  with  seeming  cold. 

She  was  very  young  still,  and  she  was  utterly  solitary,  and 
she  passed  many  hours  of  misery  recalling  every  incident  of 
the  past  four  years,  and  torturing  herself  with  those  vain 
and  cruel  wishes  which  cry  out  to  the  past  to  come  back, 
that  we  may  undo.,  and  unsay,  all  that  has  been  done  and 
been  said  in  it. 

At  last  she  wrot*?  one  which  satisfied  her  in  so  far  as  it 
seemed  to  her  to  express  her  sense  of  indignity  and  wrong 
without  descending  to  appeal. 

It  was  worded  thus  : 

“ After  what  passed  between  us  on  the  last  day  that  you 
were  here,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  believe,  or  for  you  to  pre- 
tend, that  I am  in  any  kind  of  way  necessary  to,  or  desired 
in,  your  life.  You  have  told  me,  in  the  most  undisguised 
terms,  that  you  regret  that  I ever  had  any  association  with 
your  life  whatever.  You  cannot  regret  it  more  than  I do. 
As  I ventured  to  remind  you  once  before,  the  act  was  yours, 
not  mine.  The  only  way  in  which  the  mistake  of  it  can  be 
in  any  measure  rectified,  is  for  me  to  leave  you.  The  little 
fortune  which  was  left  to  my  father  on  the  day  of  his  death 
is  mine,  and  is  more  than  enough  for  all  my  wants.  I only 
await  your  permission,  which  I cannot  believe  will  be  refused, 
to  leave  Ladysrood,  and  seek  some  solitude,  where  under  my 


GUILDEROY , 243 

maiden  name  I may  endeavor  to  forget  that  I ever  had  the 
misfortune  to  become  your  wife.” 

She  read  this  again  and  again,  scanning  it  carefully  and 
critically,  to  make  sure  that  it  contained  no  word  which  could 
flatter  him,  or  imply  in  her  any  infirmity  of  purpose,  or 
yearning  of  affection.  Her  future  was  wholly  obscure  to  her  ; 
she  did  not  dare  to  drag  consideration  of  it  into  the  clear  light 
of  reason  and  actuality.  All  she  felt  was  a violent  longing 
to  cease  to  be  his  wife  in  name,  since  she  had  never  been  so 
in  heart,  and  to  eat  his  bread  and  rule  his  house  and  spend 
his  gold  no  more.  Other  women  might  be  content  with  that 
purely  conventional  position ; she  was  not : he  had  made  life 
intolerable  to  her;  let  the  world  know  that  he  had  done  so. 

She  was  no  mere  meek  blind  puppet,  to  gratify  him  by  ap- 
pearing at  his  side  at  Court,  and  bearing  children  to  his 
name,  whilst  all  the  joys  and  interests  and  passions  of  his 
life  were  found  elsewhere.  Ho  doubt  he  would  prefer  that 
she  would  be  one  of  those  patient,  passionless,  sightless 
women  who  would  go  through  all  the  ceremonies  of  society 
beside  him,  and  leave  him  free,  without  the  world’s  censure,  to 
find  pleasure  and  sentiment  in  the  arms  of  others.  But  she 
was  not  one  of  those — and  all  that  even  her  father  had  asked 
of  her  was  to  forbear  from  avenging  desertion  by  dishonor. 

She  read  the  letter  again  and  again,  and  could  find  no  flaw 
in  it.  It  asserted  only  what  it  was  her  perfect  right  to  claim. 

He  could  not  compel  her  to  stay  on  in  his  houses  only  that 
by  her  presence  there  he  might  have  more  facility  for  invit- 
ing under  his  roof  all  those  on  whom  his  caprice  fastened  for 
the  hour. 

She  signed  it  “ Gladys  Vernon”  and  sealed  the  envelope 
of  it  with  her  father’s  arms. 

Then  a remembrance  came  to  her  of  such  humiliation  that 
her  white  cheeks  grew  red  with  the  shame  of  it,  where  she 
sat  in  solitude.  She  did  not  know  where  to  address  him; 
she  would  have  to  inquire  of  his  land-agent  where  he  was. 

As  she  paused,  looking  at  the  undirected  envelope,  medi- 
tating whether,  to  avoid  such  confession  of  ignorance,  she 
should  address  it  to  the  English  Embassy  in  Paris,  and  let 
it  take  its  chance,  the  groom  of  the  chambers  entered  the 
library. 

“ Lord  Aubrey  has  arrived,  my  lady,”  said  the  man,  “ and 
asks  if  you  will  receive  him.” 


244 


GUILD  EE  Or. 


CHAPTEB  XXXVIII. 

“ My  dear  Gladys,  I had  no  time  to  let  you  know,”  said 
Aubrey  a moment  after,  “ for  I was  uncertain  myself  until 
last  night  that  I should  be  able  to  accept  the  invitation  of 
your  county  to  their  banquet.  I have  only  two  hours  to 
spend  with  you;  but  that  is  better  than  nothing.  You  look 
ill,  dear.  But  that  is  natural.  So  irreparable  a calamity  as 
yours  cannot  be  borne  without  suffering,  which  is  in  itself 
an  illness.” 

She  was  glad  to  'see  him  ; the  frank  warm  sympathy  of  his 
words,  the  grasp  of  his  hands,  the  sense  of  his  kindly  and 
staunch  sincerity  were  always  precious  to  her.  After  the 
platitudes  of  Hilda  Sunbury,  they  seemed  like  a fresh  sea- 
wind  after  the  dull  close  air  of  some  shut  chamber.  Yet  a 
certain  uneasiness  which  she  had  never  felt  before  made  her 
constrained  and  troubled  under  the  searching  and  earnest 
gaze  of  his  eyes.  She  knew  that  she  had  done  what  he 
would  blame  ; she  knew  that  she  had  written  what  he  would 
blame  still  more. 

“ It  must  be  a consolation  to  you  to  be  absorbed  in  public 
life  ? ” she  said  wistfully. 

“ It  takes  one  out  of  oneself,”  he  replied.  “All  work  does 
so ; but  national  work  most  of  all.” 

“ You  have  so  much  to  think  of,”  she  said  evasively,  “you 
could  not  be  unhappy.” 

Aubrey  was  silent. 

“ I have  nothing  to  think  of,”  she  added,  “ except  my 
father.” 

“ Ah,  dear  ! Why  did  I tell  you  ? There  is  no  irremedf 
able  sorrow  except  death.” 

They  were  alone  in  the  gardens  into  which  they  had 
strolled.  Lady  Sunbury  was  away  for  a few  days,  the  girl 
had  gone  out  riding  on  the  moors  ; there  had  been  rain  in 
the  morning,  but  the  early  afternoon  was  fine  though  sun- 
less. There  was  the  warm  glow  of  autumnal  flowers  every- 
where. 

“ Why  is  Evelyn  away  ? ” he  asked.  “ Have  you  done 
that  which  I besought  you  not  to  do  ? I hoped  to  find  you 


GTJILDEROr.  245 

drawn  nearer  to  him.  He  was  sincerely  afflicted  at  the  loss 
you  sustained.” 

u Yes.  He  was  fond  of  my  father.” 

Her  voice  trembled ; the  tears  rose  to  her  eyes. 

“ Well,  surely  that  common  sorrow  should  have  united 
you” 

“ He  does  not  even  write  to  me  ! ” she  said  with  indigna- 
tion. “ He  only  writes  to  Ward  and  Brunton.” 

They  were  his  land-agent  and  his  house-steward, 

“ He  probably  does  not  know  wdiat  to  say  to  you,”  replied 
Aubrey.  “ When  men  are  in  false  positions  they  generally 
avoid  writing.  We  are  all  moral  cowards,  I assure  you.  He 
is  not  more  so  than  the  rest  of  us.  We  dislike  to  give  pain, 
and  our  dislike  to  doing  so  usually  brings  about  more  pain 
in  the  end  than  if  we  had  frankly  grasped  the  truth  at  the 
first.” 

“ He  is  your  cousin  ; it  is  natural  that  you  should  take  his 
part.” 

“ I have  not  deserved  that  rebuke  from  you,  Gladys.” 
There  was  the  scent  of  wet  grass  and  fallen  leaves,  and  the 
sound  of  the  fountains  came  through  the  perfect  silence, 
monotonous  and  melodious. 

“ Did  you  ever  lose  any  one  you  loved  greatly  ? ” she 
asked  him. 

u Yes,”  he  replied.  u I lost  one  whom  I loved  immensely; 
yet  for  whose  loss  I was  thankful,  since  her  life  would  have 
been  a greater  torture  to  me  than  her  death  was.” 

“ That  must  have  been  terrible  ! ” 

“ There  is  nothing  so  terrible.” 

She  did  not  ask  more.  She  was  absorbed  in  that  selfish- 
ness which  is  begotten  in  the  most  generous  natures  by  the 
suffering  of  the  affections.  She  could  not  rouse  herself  from 
it  to  enter  into  the  life  of  another.  Aubrey  saw  that  her 
thoughts  were  not  with  him,  and  the  impulse  of  confidence 
which  had  momentarily  moved  him  was  checked. 

(( Did  you  know  that  he  loved  the  Duchess  Soria?”  she 
asked  abruptly.  The  question  troubled  and  embarrassed  her 
companion  ; he  answered  with  hesitation  : 

“ Who  could  be  infamous  enough  to  tell  you  that  ? It 
was  before  his  marriage.” 

“ It  might  be  before.  But  he  loves  her  still,  now  ; he  ha$ 
never  really  loved  any  other  woman  ; he  has  told  me  so.” 


246 


GUILLEBOY . 


“ A boutade ,”  said  Aubrey  angrily.  One  of  bis  innumfriv 
able  boutades . He  is  like  Horace’s  wayward  child  : 

‘ Porrigis  irato  puero  quum  pomam,  recusat : 

Sume,  catelle  ; negat.  Si  non  des,  optat. 

That  is  why  he  adores  her;  she  is  withdrawn  from  him.” 

“ I have  never  found  the  fruit  that  he  would  court,  given 
or  withdrawn,”  said  Gladys  bitterly. 

She  was  thinking  of  her  husband’s  easy  acquiescence  in 
her  own  withdrawal  from  him. 

“Pardon  me,  dear,”  said  Aubrey  tenderly;  “but  I think 
you  have  never  endeavored  to  understand  his  character  enough 
to  soothe  or  influence  him.  You  have  loved  him  no  doubt; 
but  you  have  given  to  your  love  that  apre  and  exacting  com- 
plexion which  alienates  any  man,  and,  most  of  all,  a man  as 
self-indulgent  and  as  universally  caressed  as  he.  Forgive  me 
if  I seem  to  blame  you.  I know  he  has  made  life  difficult 
for  you.” 

“Will  you  read  what  I have  written  to  him  ?” 

She  took  a letter  from  her  pocket,  and  held  it  out  to  him. 

“ I have  written  many  others  and  destroyed  them.  They 
seemed  too  insolent.  Read  this  !” 

It  was  the  letter  which  she  had  written  that  morning. 
Aubrey  sat  down  on  a bench  under  one  of  the  cedars,  and 
read  it.  She  could  tell  nothing  from  the  expression  of  his 
countenance.  He  folded  it  up,  and  gave  it  back  to  her. 

“ If  your  father  were  living,  he  would  not  let  you  send  it.” 
She  colored  ; she  knew  that  already. 

“ To  send  it  will  be  to  sever  your  life  forever  from  Guilde- 
roy’s.  Anger  is  a bad  counsellor.  You  will  live  on  the  ex- 
citation of  anger  for  a few  months  ; it  is  like  a drug;  it  sup- 
plies all  the  natural  forces  of  life  for  a time,  only  to  leave 
them  utterly  prostrate  when  its  effects  have  passed.  You 
are  just  nowin  that  state  of  intense  pain  and  violent  indigna- 
tion in  which  a woman  has  before  now  murdered  the  man 
who  loved  and  wronged  her.  But  when  the  heat  and  wrath 
of  this  hour  pass,  as  they  will  pass,  you  will  regret  it  to  the 
last  day  of  your  life  if,  of  jrour  own  will  and  accord,  you 
break  the  bonds  of  your  affections,  and  make  it  utterly  im- 
possible for  them  ever  to  be  re-united.” 

She  was  silent.  She  was  seated  beside  him  on  the  bench. 
Her  head  was  turned  away,  but  he  could  see  her  emotion 
in  the  strong  throbbing  of  the  veins  of  her  throat. 


GTTILDEROr. 


247 


‘'You  write  and  you  speak,”  continued  Aubrey,  “as  if  he 
had  left  your  forever ; he  has  intimated  no  intention  whatever 
of  doing  so;  he  has  gone  away  for  a few  weeks,  as  he  has 
often  done  before  and  you  have  then  thought  nothing  of 
it.  When  he  returns,  receive  him  as  usual.  Be  sure  that  he 
will  appreciate  your  forbearance  and  your  kindness.  Men 
often  seem  ungrateful,  but  I do  not  think  they  are  often  so 
for  real  tenderness.” 

“Receive  him  when  he  comes  from  her  ! ” 

“ From  ‘ her  ? or  any  other  c her/  Why  do  you  take  for 
granted  that  he  is  now  the  lover  of  the  Duchess  Soria  ? 
Myself,  I do  not  believe  that  he  is.  She  is  a very  proud 
woman,  and  his  rupture  with  her  was  public  and  sudden — the 
kind  of  offence  which  a proud  woman  never  forgives  ; for  she 
had  done  nothing  to  bring  it  about  or  to  merit  it.” 

“ And  I am  to  be  grateful  if  she  now  refuses  his  homage  ! ” 

“ Aou  are  perverse,  my  dear,”  said  Aubrey  sadly.  “ I 
do  not  tell  you  to  be  grateful:  I tell  you  to  be  generous. 
They  are  very  different  things.  And  at  the  risk  of 
wounding  you,  Gladys,  I must  confess  that  what  you 
feel  now  is  much  more  irritated  self-love,  than  it  is  love  at 
all.” 

She  rose  impetuously,  and  walked  with  quick,  uneven  steps 
to  and  fro  upon  the  grass  ; her  sombre  dress  enhanced  the 
fairness  of  her  face,  the  golden  glow  of  her  hair,  the  darkness 
of  her  eyes,  and  lashes,  as  the  full  light  poured  down  on  her 
through  the  branches  of  the  trees.  She  did  not  look  a woman 
to  share  the  fate  of  Ariadne.  Aubrey  looked  at  her,  and  his 
vision  was  troubled  and  his  calm  wisdom  and  unselfishness 
were  disturbed  in  their  balance.  Did  his  cousin  deserve  that 
he  should  plead  thus  for  him  ? Did  the  wanderer,  who  shunned 
no  Ogygia  wherein  white  arms  beckoned  to  him,  merit  so 
much  fidelity,  so  much  forbearance  ? 

And  yet  she  loved  him.  What  hope  was  there  for  her  ex- 
cept in  such  patience  and  such  pardon  as  might  in  time  bring 
her  reward  ? 

“ May  I tear  the  letter  up  ? ” he  asked  her. 

“ If  you  wish,”  she  said,  reluctantly. 

“ And  will  you  promise  me  not  to  write  any  other  like 
it?” 

“ I cannot  promise  that.” 

“ And  yetj  dear,  I ask  the  promise  more  for  your  sake 
than  his.  If  you  leave  him  you  can  wound  his  pride  cer« 


m 


GUILBEUOT. 


tainly,  and  humble  him  before  the  world;  but  that  will  be 
all,  for  he  will  seek  and  find  consolation.  But  if  you,  of  your 
own  act,  sever  the  tie  which  unites  you,  you  will  be  forever 
miserable,  for  you  will  never  forgive  yourself.” 

She  was  silent ; her  eyes  watched  the  shadows  of  the  leaves 
swaying  upon  the  grass ; she  was  unconvinced,  angered, 
mortified,  almost  sullen.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  wrongs 
were  wide  as  the  universe,  and  no  one  pitied  them. 

At  that  moment  Lady  Constanee  ran  down  the  terrace 
steps  coming  from  her  ride  ; she  was  calling  uproariously  to 
the  dogs  who  had  been  with  her ; she  brought  a boisterous 
rush  of  youthful  energy  and  spirits  ; Gladys  felt  very  old 
beside  her. 

They  were  no  more  alone,  and  in  half-an-hour  he  had  to  take 
leave  of  her,  for  his  presence  was  expected  that  evening  at  a 
political  banquet  in  the  county  town  some  fifty  miles  away. 

u Promise  me,  for  your  father’s  sake,”  he  murmured  as  he 
bade  her  adieu. 

She  sighed,  and  her  mouth  trembled,  but  she  did  not  prom- 
ise. She  looked  at  the  fragments  of  the  torn  letter  lying 
on  the  ground:  she  knew  every  phrase  of  it  by  heart;  she 
could  write  it  again  in  ten  minutes. 

After  he  had  left  her  she  walked  to  and  fro  restlessly  and 
wearily  in  the  gray,  soft,  autumnal  afternoon.  The  silence 
was  unbroken,  except  now  and  then  by  the  caw  of  a rook ; 
the  great  facade  of  the  house  stretched  before  her,  stately 
and  noble,  with  the  greatness  on  it  of  a.  perished  time ; the 
solemn  stillness  of  the  woods  and  moors  enveloped  it ; there 
was  that  in  its  very  beauty  and  majesty  which  hurt  her  more 
than  any  unloveliness  would  have  done.  She  remembered 
the  day  when  she  had  come  thither  first,  with  all  a child’s 
eager  curiosity,  a child’s  ardent  imagination.  It  was  not  so 
very  long  ago  in  years;  and  yet  how  old  she  felt ! 

What  was  he  doing  now  ? 

That  was  the  thought  which  tortured  her  every  hour  of 
the  day  and  night.  In  absence  and  uncertainty,  distance 
seems  to  grow  up  like  the  wall  of  a great  prison  between  us, 
and  the  one  whose  face  we  cannot  see,  whose  voice  we  can- 
not hear,  and  whose  time  and  whose  thoughts  are  given  we 
know  not  where,  only  are  not,  we  do  know,  given  to  us. 

She  was  jealous  of  other  women — of  any  woman,  of  all 
women — with  a passionate  physical  jealousy  which  was  in- 
tolerable pain  and  as  intolerable  a humiliation.  He  had 


GUILD  EROY, 


249 


thought  her  cold  because  tlie  first  few  weeks  of  his  early  love 
for  her  had  left  with  her  such  ineffable,  such  undying  re- 
membrance, that  the  mere  caresses  of  habit  were  unendu- 
rable to  her  after  them.  She  knew  all  that  ecstasy,  ardor, 
and  the  might  of  a master  passion  could  give ; and  she  had 
been  utterly  unable  to  resign  herself  to  the  mere  occasional 
formality  of  a joyless  embrace.  With  all  the  intensity  of  life 
in  her  which  youth,  and  strength  and  perfect  health  could 
give  to  her,  she  had  been  utterly  unable  to  endure  that  pas- 
sionless position  of  the  mere  possible  mother  of  his  children, 
to  wdiich  he  had  relegated  her.  It  was  because  such  warmth 
and  force  of  passion  were  in  her  that  she  had  seemed  pas- 
sionless to  him,  because  she  had  refused  to  take  from  habit 
what  love  denied  to  her.  And  now  all  that  passion  in  her 
felt  was  the  most  cruel,  the  most  torturing,  of  all  pain;  the 
pain  of  a totally  impotent  jealousy;  a jealousy  which  hides 
itself  from  public  eyes  through  pride,  but  makes  wretched 
every  single  thought  of  the  brain  and  impulse  of  the  heart, 
robs  night  of  sleep,  and  renders  daylight  hateful. 

Men  are  intolerant  of  the  jealousy  of  women,  but  they 
might  be  more  indulgent  to  it  than  they  are  if  they  remem- 
bered its  excuse.  Stendalil  has  justly  said  that  the  pain  of 
jealousy  is  so  intolerable  to  a woman  because  it  is  so  wholly 
impossible  for  her  to  follow  in  absence  the  life  of  the  man  she 
loves  ; so  wholly  impossible  for  her  to  measure  his  sincerity, 
or  to  be  sure  of  his  truth  in  any  way.  The  man  can  watch 
the  woman,  can  test  her  in  a thousand  ways,  can  haunt  her 
steps  and  prove  her  fidelity  ; but  she  can  do  nothing  of  this 
in  return.  If  he  choose  to  lie  to  her  she  must  be  deceived  ; 
and  the  more  loyal,  the  more  delicate,  the  more  generous  her 
nature,  the  more  are  all  means  of  learning  the  truth  of  his 
words  and  the  facts  of  his  actions  forbidden  to  her. 

“ Toujours  les  delicats  souffrent ! ” And  this  is  as  true  of 
l#ve  as  of  life. 


CHAPTEE  XXXIX. 

The  afternoon  was  growing  dark,  and  the  low  red  sue  was 
glowing  behind  dark  clouds  as  she  turned  to  ascend  the  ter- 
race steps. 

The  young  Constance  was  sitting  disconsolately  all  alone 
with  the  dogs  about  her. 


250 


QU1LDEROY. 


“ I am  afraid  you  are  very  dull  here/’  said  Gladys,  as  she 
saw  the  girl’s  attitude. 

“ It  is  as  dull  as  death  ! ” said  the  girl  pettishly. 

Gladys’s  face  changed,  and  the  look  of  momentary  sym- 
pathy passed  out  of  it. 

“1  will  beg  your  mother  to  let  you  go  home,”  she  answered. 
“ It  is  very  painful  to  me  to  feel  you  are  here  against  your 
will,  and  I shall  do  perfectly  well  alone.” 

“ Why  do  you  not  go  abroad?”  asked  the  girl.  “You 
might  enjoy  yourself  endlessly.  Oh,  I know  you  are  in 
mourning  just  now  ; but  it  was  just  the  same  when  you  were 
not.  You  never  enjoyed  anything.” 

“ Perhaps  not,”  said  Gladys,  thinking  of  the  days  when 
she  had  enjoyed  every  hour  of  her  existence,  on  the  moors 
and  by  the  sea ; when  to  feel  her  boat  bound  with  the  tide, 
and  hear  the  lark  sing  above  the  gaze,  and  watch  a nest  of 
young  chaffinches  in  the  orchard  boughs,  or  the  play  of  young 
rabbits  on  the  moorland  turf,  had  been  happiness  enough  for 
her — such  simple,  natural,  country  born  happiness  as  the  girl 
had  never  known. 

“He  is  enjoying  himself  ; why  should  not  you  ? Nobody 
wears  deep  mourning  long  now,  and  nobody  makes  any  dif- 
ference for  it  while  they  do,”  said  Lady  Constance,  holding 
up  one  of  the  newspapers  which  lay  in  her  lap,  and  pointing 
with  her  finger  to  a paragraph  in  one  of  them. 

Gladys  looked  involuntarily  where  she  pointed.  It  was  a 
description  of  an  autumnal  party  then  assembled  at  one  of 
the  great  chateaux  of  Prance  ; and  amongst  the  names  of  the 
guests  were  printed  those  of  Guildcroy  and  the  Duchess 
Soria, 

“Always  those  journals!”  said  Gladys,  as  she  motioned 
it  aside  in  disgust. 

“ They  are  very  indiscreet,  sometimes,”  said  the  girl 
cruelly,  with  a malicious  smile. 

Gladys  said  nothing,  but  passed  by  her  tormentor  and 
went  indoors. 

“ What  a fool  she  is  to  care ! ” thought  Lady  Constance. 

In  the  morning,  very  early,  a mounted  messenger  brought 
a letter  from  Aubrey,  which  he  had  written  over  night  be- 
fore leaving  the  town. 

“ It  is  impossible  for  me  to  see  you  yet  again,  my  dear 
Gladys,”  he  wrote,  “ though  I will  endeavor  to  do  so  next 
month.  Meanwhile  I once  more  entreat  you  to  do  nothing 


OUILDEEOT. 


251 


rashly.  The  only  possible  consolation  for  us  in  sorrow  ig 
when  we  are  able  to  feel  that  we  ha^e  done  nothing  to  de- 
serve or  hasten  it.  Perfect  patience  with  those  we  love  gives 
us  this  solace  if  it  gives  us  no  other.  Very  likely  your 
wrongs  are  less  grave  than  you  think  ; but  even  if  they  are 
more  so,  still  do  nothing  rashty. 

“You  have  a high  sense  of  honor,  and  having  this,  you 
must  feel  that  as  you  accepted  the  charge  of  your  husband’s 
good  name,  you  must,  in  honor,  do  nothing  to  imperil  it. 
And  forgive  me,  dear,  if  I add  that  in  all  your  expressions, 
whether  written  or  spoken,  I found  much  more  of  the  evi- 
dence of  a sense  of  injury  than  I found  of  the  unselfishness 
which  is  the  highest  note  of  love. 

“ I am  a man,  as  you  know,  in  whose  harassed  and  busied 
life  neither  poetry  nor  love  have  any  place,  but  I remember 
reading,  I forget  where  or  how,  some  lines  which  have 
haunted  my  memory  ever  since.  They  are  these 

Though  you  forget, 

No  word  of  mine  shall  mar  your  pleasure. 

Though  you  forget 

You  fill’d  my  barren  life  with  treasure, 

You  may  withdraw  the  gift  you  gave, 

You  still  are  queen,  I still  am  slave, 

Though  you  forget. 

“Now  it  is  the  heart  which  says  as  much  as  this,  even 
when  forsaken,  which  to  my  thinking  loves ; ar\d  no  heart  which 
says  less  than  this  does  love.  It  may  throb  with  rage,  fret 
with  jealousy,  smart  with  pain,  but  it  does  not  love.  What, 
after  all,  dear,  is  any  human  life,  that  it  should  exact  as  its 
right  remembrance  and  devotion  from  another  ? 

“Whether  we  have  that  right  or  not,  we  are  only  either 
wise  or  tender  when  we  waive  it  wholly  and  are  content  to 
give  ourselves  without  seeking  or  asking  for  any  recompense 
whatever.  If  you  give  such  as  this  to  Evelyn  now,  some  day 
or  other  be  sure  that  you  will  have  your  reward. 

“ Whether  he  deserves  it  or  not  is  wholly  beside  the  ques- 
tion. It  is  our  own  life,  our  own  character,  which  should 
determine  the  measure  and  standard  of  what  we  give — not 
those  of  the  person  to  whom  we  give  it. 

“Pardon  me  this  homily,  dear,  which  I write  when  I am 
very  fatigued,  at  long  after  midnight.  I endeavor  to  say  to 
you  what  I believe  your  father  would  say  to  you  if  he  were 
now  living.  Who  knows  that  he  may  not  stand  behind  me 


252 


GUILDEROY . 


as  I write  this,  though  my  gross  senses  cannot  perceive  his 
presence  ? We  know  little  of  life,  nothing  whatever  of 
death.  All  things  are  possible.  The  only  thing  -which 
always  seems  to  me  utterly  impossible  is  that  a great  man 
can  ever  die 

“ I am  affectionately  yours, 

“ Francis.” 


CHAPTER  XL. 

A few  days  ater  he  was  alone  for  a few  instants  with  the 
Duchess  Soria  in  one  of  the  wooded  paths  of  Aix. 

He  had  spent  his  utmost  ingenuity  in  the  effort  to  obtain 
an  unwitnessed  interview  with  her,  and  had  failed,  utterly 
failed,  as  he  had  done  in  England.  The  place  was  filled  with 
her  acquaintances,  men  who  were  as  assiduous  as  he  in  de- 
votion to  her  constantly  surrounded  her,  and  she  never  re- 
ceived him  at  her ' own  apartments  when  she  had  not  her 
friends  about  her.  She  desired  to  give,  and  she  succeeded 
in  giving  him,  the  sense  that  it  were  easier  to  uproot  the 
rocks  and  hills  around  than  to  recover  any  one  of  the  priv- 
ileges which  he  had  of  his  act  and  will  forfeited.  His  as- 
siduity in  attendance  on  her  gave  rise  to  many  comments 
amongst  the  lingering  idlers  of  the  autumn  season,  which  he 
would  have  resented  had  he  dreamed  of  them.  But  he  did 
not  even  spare  a thought  to  the  observation  of  which  he  was 
the  subject,  and  his  whole  mind  was  centered  in  the  en- 
deavor to  break  through  the  barrier  of  friendly,  but  never 
intimate,  association  with  her  ; a barrier  much  more  difficult 
to  break  through  than  any  estrangement  or  coldness  would 
have  created.  Those  would  have  afforded  permission  for  re- 
monstrance or  entreaty  ; the  serene  courtesy  with  which  she 
invariably  received  him  relegated  him  without  appeal  to' the 
position  of  a mere  acquaintance.  It  was  well  nigh  impos- 
sible to  reproach  a woman  whom  he  had  forsaken  for  being 
sufficiently  forgiving  and  kind  to  condone  such  an  offence, 
and  yet  he  would  have  been  less  discouraged  by  the  most 
marked  resentment  than  he  was  by  this  placid  courtesy.  It 
was  not  like  her  disposition  as  he  remembered  it ; it  was  not 
in  accordance  with  anything  of  her  character  as  he  had 
known  it. 

Rumor  attributed  to  her  the  intentiou  of  allying  hewelf 


GUILDEROY. 


253 


anew  with  a Russian  of  exalted  rank,  who  had  followed  her 
to  Aix,  and  who  made  no  secret  to  the  world  of  his  homage  ; 
and  Guilderoy  suffered  all  the  tortures  of  that  impotent 
jealousy  which  he  had  once  so  carelessly  inflicted  on  her,  and 
had  pitied  so  little  in  her. 

In  the  perplexity  and  perturbation  of  his  various  emotions, 
his  thoughts  seldom  went  to  Ladysrood : when  they  did  so 
they  were  mingled  with  as  much  of  displeasure  as  of  self-re- 
proach. The  waywardness  of  his  pride  made  him  consider 
that  his  wife  owed  apology  to  him  and  must  be  the  first  to 
approach  him.  Meanwhile  he  was  glad  of  that  cessation  of 
correspondence,  which  to  her  seemed  so  tragic  and  so  terrible, 
but  to  him  appeared  but  of  slight  moment.  His  whole  intel- 
ligence and  volition  were  for  the  moment  absorbed  in  the  ef- 
fort to  compel  some  revelation  of  her  real  thoughts  from  the 
Duchess  Soria.  He  was  well  used  to  meet  on  terms  of  polite 
indifference  women  in  whose  book  of  life  he  had  written  the 
tenderest  pages  ; to  greet  with  pleasant  cordiality  those  who 
had  parted  from  him  in  anguish  and  tears,  or  in  fury  and 
reproach.  But  her  indifference  became  to  him  an  hourly 
increasing  torture. 

“ Why  will  you  always  avoid  me  ? ” he  said  to  her  at  last 
in  desperation,  finding  his  opportunity  after  many  days. 

“ I am  not  aware  that  I avoid  you,”  she  answered.  “ I 
received  you  constantly  in  London,  and  I would  have  come 
to  your  house  of  Ladysrood  had  not  your  party  been  broken 
up  by  death.  You  are  unreasonable,  my  friend.” 

“For  God’s  sake  do  not  banish  me  to  that  name ! ” 

“ Are  you  not  my  friend  ? Surely  you  are  not  my  enemy  ? 
Though  perhaps  I should  be  justified  if  I were  yours.” 

Guilderoy  grew  white  with  anger. 

“ Do  not  let  us  fence  in  this  useless  fashion.  You  must 
know,  you  must  have  seen,  that  I feel  to  you  now  wholly  as 
of  old.  Hay,  I feel  more — ten  thousand  times  more ! ” 

“ What  sheer  caprice  ! ” 

“ Hot  anyway  caprice.  It  is  the  entire  truth.  You,  who 
are  so  fully  aware  of  your  power  over  men,  should  be  the  last 
to  be  astonished  at  it.” 

“ I am  astonished  at  no  human  inconsistencies ; but  I con- 
fess that,  said  by  you  to  me,  these  things  seem  rather  like 
insult  than  like  homage.” 

“ Why  ? ” 

u How  can  you  ask  me  why  ? You  broke  off  your  relations 


254 


&UILDEROT. 


with  me  with  scarcely  more  consideration  than  if  you  had 
been  a rapin  (P atelier  and  I a sewing  girl ; and  because  re- 
grets assail  you  now,  for  the  results  of  your  own  action,  you 
expect  me  to  be  touched  by  your  expression  of  them ! ” 

“ I did  not  know  my  own  heart.” 

“ Nay,  I think  you  knew  it  well  enough ; you  only  obeyed 
all  its  most  frivolous  and  faithless  instincts.  Or,  rather,  the 
heart  said  but  very  little  ; it  was  the  passions  which  were  in 
question.” 

“ You  are  wholly  unjust.” 

She  gave  a gesture  of  impatience. 

“ Men  always  consider  us  unjust  to  them  when  we  fail  to 
defy  their  weaknesses.” 

“ You  are  unjust  when  you  doubt  that  my  feeling  for  you 
was,  and  is,  the  strongest  of  my  life.” 

“ The  strongest  of  your  life,  in  which  nothing  is  strong, 
perhaps,”  she  said  with  restrained  scorn.  u Why  make  to  me 
these  vain  and  useless  protestations  ? You  took  your  own 
way.  It  is  not  my  fault  if  it  has  led  you  into  paths  not 
pleasant  to  you.” 

“ If  you  would  only  believe  in  my  sincerity  and  my  re- 
morse ! ” 

“ Why  should  I believe  in  either  ? You  do  not  seem  to 
me  to  know  what  sincerity  or  any  other  deep  emotion  means. 
You  make  love  to  me  and  you  marry  another  woman.  You 
tire  of  that  other  woman  and  you  imagine  that  you  only  love 
me.  It  is  impossible  for  any  woman  to  attach  much  impor 
tance  to  your  sentiments,  or  to  believe  that  they  can  be  of 
any  steadfastness  or  duration.” 

He  was  silent,  embarrassed  by  the  consciousness  of  the 
truth  contained  in  her  accusation,  and  impressed  by  his 
impotency  to  convince  her  that  nevertheless  she  did  him 
injustice. 

“ You  have  had  the  only  great  love  of  my  life,”  he  said, 
with  emotion.  “ In  a moment  of  ingratitude  and  blindness 
I was  false  to  you.  I imagined  that  I could  live  without 
you.  I have  repented  my  mistake  ever  since.  1 have  been, 
punished  more  than  you  can  know  or  would  believe.” 

She  interrupted  him  with  impatience. 

“ Pray  do  not  put  any  blame  on  your  wife  ; I admire  her 
exceedingly.  You  place  her  in  most  painful  and  difficult 
positions,  and  for  so  young  a woman  she  conducts  herself  in 
them  with  great  tact  and  composure.  She  is  essentially  high 


GUlLftEROY. 


255 


Dred,  and  I believe  that  she  deserves  a better  fate  than  to  go 
unloved  through  life ; possibly  she  will  not  go  unloved ! " 

“ For  Heaven's  sake  do  not  speak  of  her  ! " 

“ Why  should  I not  ? She  has  behaved  admirably  to  me : 
and,  as  far  as  I can  judge,  admirably  to  you  also.  I pity  her 
very  sincerely.  You  are  incapable  of  making  any  woman 
nappy  because  you  are  incapable  of  being  true  to  any." 

“ I am  true  to  you  ! I have  always  been  true  to  you,  ex- 
cept in  one  mad,  ungrateful  moment,  which  I have  repented 
ftvery  year  of  my  life  ever  since ! " 

She  smiled  coldly. 

“ The  truth  has  had  many  variations.  Do  you  suppose  I 
have  been  ignorant  of  all  your  distractions  ? Your  wife  may 
have,  perhaps,  but  not  I." 

He  colored  as  she  spoke. 

“ They  have  been  mere  caprices,  mere  follies  ; none  have 
ever  touched  my  heart.  That  I swear  before  Heaven  ? " 

“ How  truly  a man's  excuse  ! A man  always  considers  it 
apology  enough  for  inconstancy  if  he  can  declare  that  his  in- 
fidelity has  been  a mere  soulless  drunkenness  of  the  senses, 
for  which  he  ought  to  blush  ! Other  women  may  see  excuse 
in  such  a plea  ; I do  not." 

u I thought  you  more  lenient — more  omniscient." 

“ You  thought  me  more  credulous.  You  forget  that  you 
taught  me  a lesson  which  the  most  credulous  of  women  could 
not  forget  if  she  would.  I made  the  immense,  the  irrevoca- 
ble mistake  of  putting  my  heart  into  my  relations  with  you. 
The  one  who  does  so  is  always  the  one  who  suffers  in  any 
relation  of  that  sort.  The  mistake  is  rarely  mutual." 

He  felt  a sense  of  powerlessness  which  was  the  acutest  pain 
his  life  had  ever  known  ; how,  in  the  face  of  his  abandon- 
ment, could  he  ever  persuade  her  to  believe  that  he  had  loved, 
and  did  now  love,  her  more  than  any  other  woman  he  had 
ever  known  ? 

^ We  were  so  happy  once  ! " he  said,  with  a timidity  al- 
most boyish. 

It  seemed  to  her  an  insult  to  recall  to  her  memory  joys 
which  had  been  insufficient  to  sustain  and  retain  his  fidelity. 

A profound  indignation  flushed  in  the  depths  of  her  lumi- 
nous eyes 

“ Spare  me  that  at  least ! " she  said,  with  scorn  and 
passion. 


256 


GUILBEBOY . 


She  rose  from  her  seat  and  moved  onward.  But  he 
stopped  her. 

“ Tell  me  one  thing,”  he  said,  with  breathless  agitation. 
“ Is  it  true  what  they  say,  that  you  will  accept  the  hand  of 
the  Grand  Duke  ? ” 

“ You  have  not  the  smallest  figment  of  title  to  ask  me  such 
a question,”  she  replied  with  some  anger.  “You  have 
nothing  to  do  with  my  life  in  any  way.  I do  not,  however, 
mind  telling  you  that  my  experience  of  marriage  has  not 
been  such  as  to  make  me  inclined  to  risk  another.  What 
could  any  man  give  to  me  that  I have  not  ? And  I wholly 
agree  with  Balzac  that  marriage  is  la  plus  grande  sottise 
a laquelle  Vliumanitt  est  sacrifice.  I accepted  your  mar- 
riage without  reproach.  I received  and  visited  your  wife. 
I know  nothing  more  that  you  could  possibly  expect  from  me. 
You  have  certainly  lost  all  possible  title  to  interrogate  me. 
on  any  subject.  You  have  never  seemed  to  understand  that 
you  passed  on  me  the  deepest  affront  that  any  man  can 
pass  on  any  woman.” 

“ But  if  you  forgave  that  ? ” 

“ Who  said  that  I forgave  ? Not  I.  It  is  your  own  as- 
sumption. I neither  chastised  nor  rebuked  it,  because  to  do 
either  would  have  been  beneath  me.  We  leave  theatrical 
scenes  to  women  of  the  theatres.  But  between  silence  and 
pardon  there  are  leagues  to  traverse ; I have  never  passed 
them.  Probably  I never  shall.” 

With  that  she  left  him  and  approached  a group  of  acquaint- 
ances who  were  playing  a round  game  of  cards  in  the  mid- 
day sunshine  under  one  of  the  great  pines. 


CHAPTEK  XLI. 

The  essay  on  Friendship  which  Aubrey  had  read  one  year 
before,  chanced  to  catch  his  eye  where  it  lay  on  one  of  the 
library  tables  at  Balfrons,  a few  days  after  he  had  left 
Ladysrood ; and  the  sight  of  it  suggested  to  him  a course 
which  would  have  its  drawbacks  and  its  dangers,  but  which 
offered  to  him  some  chance  of  being  of  service  to  a life  which 
was  constantly  growing  more  dear  to  him,  but  which  as  it 
did  so  awakened  all  that  self-denial  which  was  the  strongest 
quality  in  his  naturee 


GUILDEROY . 25T 

" If  I love  tliee  what  is  that  to  thee  ? 15  he  mused.  a 0* 
to  anyone  ? ’’ 

It  would  be  forever  a secret  locked  in  his  own  breast, 
for  his  self-control  was  a force  which  had  never  yet  failed 

him. 

Tt  was  difficult  for  him  to  leave  England  at  that  moment, 
for  he  was  in  office,  and  the  drudgery  of  high  place  seldom 
relaxes  much  even  in  the  months  of  comparative  liberty. 
But  it  was  possible  to  get  away  for  a1  few  days  without  awak- 
ing too  much  comment  in  that  Argus-eyed  public  which  is 
forever  seeing  what  does  not  e^ist,  and  the  week  after  he  had 
been  at  Ladysrood  found  him  in  Paris.  There  he  learned 
that  his  cousin  had  ended  his  visits  to  the  Erench  chateaux 
and  had  gone  to  his  own  palace  in  Venice.  Although  as  a 
rule  he  condemned  all  interference  of  the  kind,  and  did  not 
even  now  expect  much  from  it,  it  still  seemed  to  him  that 
someone  should  endeavor  to  recall  Guilderoy  to  his  duties, 
and  he  saw  no  one  who  could  do  so  with  any  possibility  of 
success  unless  it  were  himself.  After  long  and  anxious 
reflection  he  decided  to  attempt  it. 

When  he  reached  Venice  the  November  day  was  full  of 
warm  and  limpid  sunshine,  sparkling  on  green  water,  shining 
marbles  and  muddy  canvas.  It  was  towards  evening,  and 
Guilderoy  was  at  home.  He  received  his  cousin  with  cor- 
diality, which  was  more  apparent  than  real,  for  he  felt  an  un- 
easy consciousness  that  Aubrey  had  not  come  thither  with- 
out some  especial  reason,  and  some  apprehension  of  its  nature 
moved  him. 

Aubrey  stated,  indeed,  that  he  was  only  there  for  a few 
hours  and  was  going  to  Vienna  by  way  of  Udine. 

a I am  leaving  myself  very  soon/’  said  Guilderoy.  “ I am 
going  southward  or  I would  accompany  you/5 

“ Southward  ? 55  said  Aubrey,  and  looked  him  full  in  the 
face. 

“ Yes,55  replied  the  other  in  the  tone  of  a man  who  is  pre- 
pared to  resent  any  comment  on  his  statement,  and  resist 
any  interrogation. 

“ Not  homeward  ? 55  asked  Aubrey. 

“ Not  at  present.55 

Aubrey  made  no  further  remarks  and  they  dined  together, 
conversing  on  the  political  situation  in  England,  and  other 
topics  of  the  hour.  After  dinner  they  sat  on  the  balcony 
which  overhung  the  water  above  the  Rialto,  The  night 

17 


258 


GUILDEROY. 


was  cold  but  the  skies  were  brilliant  with  innumerable  stars, 
and  a full  moon,  golden  and  glorious,  shone  down  on  Venice. 

“ What  is  life  ? ” thought  Aubrey.  “ To  dream  here 
under  the  stars  in  all  this  amorous  stillness,  or  to  have  every 
hour  of  the  day  filled  as  mine  is  with  the  pressure  of  public 
business  and  the  conflict  of  men’s  tongues  ? ” 

But  he  did  not  say  this ; he  said  instead 
“ You  have  never  asked  me  if  I have  seen  your  wife.” 

“I  am  sure  that  you  have,  without  asking,”  said  Guilds- 
roy,  almost  insolently,  for  he  was  extremely  angered  at  what 
he  foresaw  that  he  was  about  to  hear.  Aubrey  passed  over 
the  tone  and  the  words. 

“ I was  reading  again  your  essay  on  Friendship,  at  Bal- 
frons,  the  other  day,”  he  said  instead.  “ It  is  very  clever 
and  entirely  true.  But  one  thing  seemed  to  me  very  odd  as  I 
read  it.” 

“ That  I should  have  written  it  at  all  I should  think,”  said 
Guilderoy. 

“ No ; but  that  all  your  admirable  remarks  lead  to  so  little 
observance  of  your  own  rules  in  your  own  relationships.  One 

cannot  but  see  that  with  your  wife ” 

“ What  of  my  wife  ? ” said  Guilderoy  very  angrily.  “ She 
is  perpetually  making  me  scenes  of  upbraiding.  I cannot 
live  in  them.” 

“ But  you  do  not  even  write  to  her  ? ” 

“ I do  not  write  because  she  offended  me  very  gravely.” 

“ Did  she  offend  you  without  warrant  ? ” 
u I do  not  say  that,  but  she  began  reproaches  which  would 
be  interminable  if  one  stayed  to  hear  them.  She  must  have 
complained  of  me  to  you,  or  what  would  you  know  ? ” 

“ Be  thankful  if  she  complain  to  no  one  but  me,  my  dear 
Evelyn.  And  complaint  is  not  the  correct  word.  I asked 
about  you,  of  course,  and  she  confessed  that  you  had  left  her 
in  anger  and  that  you  did  not  write  to  her — and  that  she 
could  only  hear  where  you  were  through  Brunton  or  Ward.” 
Guilderoy  was  silent. 

“Well,”  said  Aubrey,  with  some  hesitation,  “do  you  con- 
sider that  you  render  her  happy  ? ” 

“ I do  not  admit  that  any  person  has  the  right  to  ask  me 
such  a question,”  he  said  with  increasing  anger. 

“ I told  you  I had  left  my  good  manners  outside  the  door, 
as  one  leaves  one’s  slippers  in  Persia,”  said  Aubrey.  “ As  I 
have  intruded  so  far  without  them,  I will  come  a step  farther. 


GUILDEROY. 


259 


I am  conscious  of  my  rashness,  but  we  were  children  to- 
gether, and  I will  risk  offending  you.  Do  you  consider  that 
you  have  done  what  you  could  have  done  to  keep  the  prom- 
ises you  made  to  John  Vernon  ? ” 

Guilderoy  moved  impatiently. 

“ What  did  Vernon  ever  tell  you  ?” 

“ He  never  told  me  anything.  But  I am  quite  sure  that 
you  must  have  promised  him  infinite  consideration  for  his 
daughter,  or  he  would  never  have  given  her  to  you.  He  was 
not  a man  to  care  for  rank  and  fortune.” 

“ And  what  would  you  imply  ? ” asked  Guilderoy  with 
great  hauteur. 

“ It  is  not  my  habit  to  imply,”  said  Aubrey  coldly.  “ I 
always  say  what  I mean,  and  say  it  as  clearly  as  I can.  I 
mean  and  I say  now,  that  Vernon  would  never  have  given 
you  his  daughter  if  he  had  foreseen  that  you  would  be  as  in- 
constant to  her  as  you  are.” 

“ I do  not  consider,”  said  Guilderoy,  with  great  difficulty 
controlling  his  anger,  “that  even  our  relationship  warrants 
you  in  such  intrusion  on  my  private  affairs.” 

“ Oh,  I have  said  I have  left  good  manners  outside  the  door 
for  the  moment,”  said  Aubrey  indifferently.  “ There  come 
times  in  life  when  one  must  choose  between  being  discourt- 
eous or  being  cowardly,  and  in  that  dilemma  I always  choose 
the  former  as  the  lesser  fault.  I must  venture  to  remind  you, 
if  you  have  forgotten  it,  that  to  leave  so  young  a woman  as 
Gladys  all  alone  is  to  expose  her  to  a thousand  perils.” 

Guilderoy  reddened  slightly,  partly  with  anger,  partly  with 
the  consciousness  that  his  cousin  was  right. 

“ She  is  very  cold,  and  she  is  very  proud,”  he  said  impa- 
tiently. “ Such  women  are  their  own  protectors.” 

“ A convenient  theory,  but  not  a true  one.  Nil  Helen 
peccat  may  be  fairly  said  of  any  women  who  is  left  alone.” 

“ Are  you  inclined  to  act  the  part  of  Paris  ? ” said  Guilde- 
roy, with  considerable  scorn  and  insolence,  which  his  cousin 
forced  himself  not  to  resent. 

“ I am  as  much  like  Paris  as  you  are  like  Menelaus,”  he 
said  with  admirable  good  temper.  “But you  must  be  aware, 
whether  you  choose  to  admit  it  or  not,  that  you  invite  mis- 
fortune when  you  virtually  abandon  so  young  and  so  lovely 
a woman  as  your  wife.” 

“ I do  not  abandon  her  in  any  sense  of  the  word,”  said 
Guilderoy.  “ She  has  everything  that  my  positron,  my 


260 


GUIZDETtOY. 


respect,  my  fortune  can  bestow  on  her.  I shall  never  ceas$ 
to  testify  to  her  every  possible  outward  regard.  I detest  the 
very  smallest  exhibition  to  the  world  of  disunion.” 

“But  you  see  nothing  injurious  in  the  actual  existence  of 
it  ? My  dear  Guilderoy,  can  you  seriously  think  that  a mere 
girl  like  Gladys,  always  at  heart  in  love  with  you  and  not 
cold  (though  you  imagine  her  so  because  you  are  yourself 
cold  to  her),  can  be  expected  to  be  content  with  nothing 
more  than  the  conventional  pretence  of  union  ? Surely  with 
your  vast  experience  with  the  sex,  you  must  know  them 
better  than  that.” 

“ I cannot  help  it ! She  is  not  sympathetic  to  me  ; it  is  a 
calamity,  not  a crime  ! ” 

“No  woman  whom  you  had  married  would  have  been 
sympathetic  to  you  for  more  than  three  months,”  thought 
Aubrey,  but  he  did  not  say  so  aloud. 

“Have  you  come  here  to  read  me  a homily  ?”  continued 
Guilderoy,  with  impatience  and  hauteur. 

Aubrey  looked  at  him  steadfastly. 

“ That  is  beyond  my  pretensions.  I am  not  your  keeper. 
But  I frankly  admit  that  I came  here  to  tell  you  one  thing. 
I was  at  Ladysrood  for  two  hours.  I found  your  wife  in  that 
state  of  irritation,  suffering  and  offence,  in  which  a woman 
may  easily  fall  at  a bound  from  perfect  virtue  to  utter  ruin 
and  self-abandonment.  She  is  young ; she  does  not  inherit 
her  father’s  philosophy.  She  is  profoundly  unhappy,  and  I 
thought  that  it  was  only  right  that  you  should  be  made  aware 
of  it,  for  you  seem  to  think  that  a woman  is  like  one  of  your 
Lelys  or  Reynoldses  which  hang  immovable  in  your  family 
portrait  gallery,  though  you  may  only  glance  at  them  once 
in  twenty  years.  My  dear  Evelyn,  you  have  been  the  lover 
of  innumerable  women  ; recall  all  your  experiences  of  the 
wives  of  other  men ; does  not  all  your  knowledge  tell  you 
that  your  own  wife  is  now  in  a position  of  the  greatest  peril 
which  a sense  of  utter  loneliness,  and  the  besom  a? aimer  un- 
gratified, can  create  for  any  one  at  her  dangerous  age  ? ” 

Guilderoy  did  not  reply  ; he  rose  and  walked  up  and  down 
the  long  balcony  with  impatience  and  uneasiness.  His  in- 
telligence and  his  conscience  both  made  it  impossible  for  him 
to  deny  the  force  of  his  cousin’s  suggestions ; and  his  mind, 
which  was  always  open  to  reason  even  when  his  passions 
obscured  it,  could  not  but  acknowledge  the  truth  of  them 
A sudden  suspicion  also  flashed  across  his  thoughts. 


guildehoy.  - 26i 

a You  do  not  mean — ” he  said  abruptly.  u You  do  not 

mean  that  there  is  any  one ” 

“ There  is  no  one  yet,  certainly/’  replied  Aubrey.  u But 
how  long  it  may  be  before  that  supreme  temptation  comes  to 
her — who  can  say  ? When  it  does  come  you  cannot  blame 
her,  She  can  with  justice  say  to  you,  vous  Vavez  voulu,  I 
remind  you  again  : Nil  Helen  peccat.v 
Guilderoy  was  silent. 

“ I cannot  help  it/’  he  said  at  last,  uneasily.  u I do  not 
care  for  her.  One  cannot  feign  that  feeling/’ 

u But  why,  in  Heaven’s  name,  did  you  marry  her  ? ” 

“ I thought  I cared.  I did  care  a little  while.  How  can 
one  account  for  these  emotions  ? My  dear  Francis,  what- 
ever faults  I may  have,  I am  never  consciously  insincere. 
If  I seem  to  deceive  women  it  is  because  I deceive  myself.” 
“ That  I entirely  believe.  But  it  is  the  more  hopeless  for 
them.  Nor  can  I sjmipathize  with  you  in  any  way.  You 
might  have  made  of  her  anything  you  chose  if  you  had  taken 
the  trouble.” 

Guilderoy  was  silent. 

He  was  thinking  of  the  days  when  in  the  cottage  porch  at 
Christslea  he  had  quoted  to  John  Yernon  the  etpuer  est  et 
nudus  Amor,  And  how  wholly  it  had  been  with  him  as  the 
dead  man  had  predicted  ! 

“ He  knew  me  better  than  I knew  myself,”  he  thought. 
“ And  yet  I was  quite  honest  in  what  I said  then  and  in 
what  I urged.” 

“ Yes,”  said  Aubrey/divining  the  course  of  his  reflections ; 
“ I believe  you  are  always  entirely  sincere,  though  very  few 
people  would  believe  it.  But  the  effect  of  your  changes  of 
feeling  is  quite  as  disastrous  to  others  as  if  you  were  not.  I 
think  your  estimate  of  Gladys  is  wholly  incorrect.  I think 
she  would  even  interest  you  and  attract  you  if  you  deigned 
to  occupy  yourself  with  her  character.  I think  she  is  a 
woman  who  would  be  capable  even  of  making  you  passion- 
ately in  love  with  her,  if  she  had  not  the  irreparable  fault  of 
belonging  to  you.  But  I have  said  all  that  I can  possibly 
claim  the  right  to  say — perhaps  even  more  than  I ought  to 
have  said.  I hope,  however,  that  you  will  pardon  me,  and 
think  over  what  I have  suggested.  I believe  that  you  would 
never  forgive  yourself  if,  through  your  neglect,  any  dishonor 
came  upon  your  home,  or  even  any  great  wrong  were  don©  to 
the  memory  of  a dead  man  who  trusted  you.” 


262  QUXLbfinoY. 

Then  Aubrey  rose,  bade  him  good  night,  and  quitted 
him. 

“ Will  it  have  done  any  good  ? ” thought  Aubrey,  doubt- 
fully. u At  all  events,  I have  done  what  little  I could  do  for 
her.” 

His  own  heart  was  heavy,  for  his  self-imposed  mission  had 
not  been  accomplished  without  much  pain  to  himself.  Far 
more  willingly,  had  it  been  possible  to  do  so,  would  he  have 
struck  the  man  who  could  be  faithless  to  her  ; far  more  will- 
ingly would  he  have  espoused  her  quarrel  with  the  old  rude 
weapons  of  violence.  But  to  him  they  were  forbidden  by  his 
sense  of  dignity  and  duty,  of  position  and  of  patriotism;  and 
even  if  they  had  not  been  so,  they  would  have  been  of  no 
earthly  service  to  her.  He  had  little  hope  that  anything 
would  be  of  service.  In  endeavoring  to  influence  his  cousin 
he  felt  like  a man  who  tries  to  make  a solid  dyke  out  of  the 
shifting  sand.  Sometimes  the  dyke  is  made,  but  the  sea  is 
always  there. 

He  left  his  cousin  the  tormented  prey  of  many  conflicting 
emotions,  of  which  the  dominant  one  was  self-reproach, 
although  almost  as  strong  a one  was  anger. 

Amidst  his  self-reproach  there  was  a strong  sense  of  anger 
against  Aubrey,  who  had  presumed  to  interfere  with  him, 
and  there  was  also  a vague  jealousy.  What  title  had  his 
cousin  to  espouse  the  cause  of  Gladys  ? What  right  had  he 
to  make  himself  the  confidant  of  her  sorrows,  or  the  cham- 
pion of  her  wrongs  ? Her  father  might  have  said  all  this, 
and  would  have  had  the  right  to  say  it ; but  he  did  not  con- 
cede to  Aubrey  any  more  right  to  do  so  than  he  would  have 
allowed  to  any  one  of  the  gondoliers  then  idling  at  his  water- 
gate. 

A great  irritation  rose  up  in  him  at  the  thought  of  an- 
other man  being  the  consoler  and  adviser  of  his  wife ; and 
he  remembered  how  constantly  Aubrey  had  found  time  to 
visit  at  Ladysrood  in  spring  or  in  autumn,  and  to  sit  with 
Gladys  in  her  boudoir  in  the  London  house,  even  in  the  pres- 
sure and  hurry  of  a crowded  London  season.  He  had  been 
glad  of  it  at  the  time  ; he  had  even  constantly  thanked  his 
cousin  for  so  much  devotion  to  her  interests  ; but  now  this 
intimacy  wore  to  his  eyes  a less  agreeable  and  innocent  as- 
pect. Not  that  he  suspected  for  a moment  Aubrey  of  any 
disloyal  intent.  Aubrey’s  visit  to  himself  proved  his  loyalty, 
and  testified  to  his  candor ; but  the  idea  of  his  influence  on 


GUILDEROY.  263 

Gladys,  and  of  his  defence  of  her  was,  to  him,  exceedingly 
distasteful. 

“ If  he  were  married,  should  I ever  presume  to  take  him 
to  task  about  his  wife?  ” he  thought  with  strong  displeasure. 
The  substance  of  what  Aubrey  had  said  might  be  correct 
enough : it  was  the  fact  that  he  did  say  it  at  all  which  con- 
stituted the  offence. 

Nevertheless  the  counsels,  neither  of  his  friend  nor  of  his 
conscience,  were  of  weight  enough  to  turn  his  steps  north- 
wards. He  left  Venice  within  a few  days  and  passed  on  to 
Naples. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

Gladys  did  not  send  the  letter  she  had  written,  but  neither 
did  she  comprehend  the  greatness  of  the  love  which  Aubrey 
called  on  her  to  give.  It  was  such  love  as  her  father  had 
counselled  her  to  attain  and  striven  to  inspire  in  her;  love 
which  rises  above  all  memories  of  self,  and  pardons  all  of- 
fences against  it,  as  God,  in  the  dreams  of  mortals,  pardons 
theirs.  But  her  years  were  too  few,  her  heart  was  too  sore, 
her  jealousy  was  too  intense,  her  passions  had  been  too  early 
excited  only  to  be  left  in  solitude  and  oblivion,  for  her  to  be 
able  to  reach  even  in  mere  comprehension  the  height  to 
which  Aubrey  pointed. 

The  days  and  the  weeks  passed  on,  and  winter  came  earlier 
to  Ladysrood  than  it  came  to  the  land  where  Guilderoy  still 
found  the  earth  green  and  the  skies  and  the  seas  smiling. 
Always  beautiful  in  all  seasons,  yet  the  great  house  was 
austere  and  melancholy  towards  the  close  of  the  year,  in  the 
short  dark  days  and  in  the  long  silent  nights.  Its  immense 
woods  were  leafless,  its  gardens  were  cold  and  swept  by  bit- 
ter winds  blowing  from  the  high  moors  beyond,  on  still  days 
or  nights,  when  the  sea  was  stormy,  the  sound  of  its  break- 
ers roaring  on  the  rocks  three  miles  away  was  audible  and 
dreary  as  the  very  groan  of  nature  herself. 

The  young  Lady  Constance  grew  indignant  and  rebellious 
beyond  her  power  to  conceal. 

u If  you  would  only  go  to  Illington  or  Balfrons?”  she 
said  fifty  times  a week ; and  one  day  she  added  insolently, 
“ Why  should  I stay  here  to  please  you  and  my  mother? 
What  are  either  of  you  afraid  of  ? This  place  is  like  a nun* 


264 


GUILDEROY. 


nery — like  a prison.  It  is  charming  enough  in  summer  or 
in  autumn  when  it  is  full  of  people,  but  now  it  would  drive 
a saint  to  madness.  Have  you  any  lover  that  they  are  afraid 
should  come  to  you  ? Trust  me  if  you  have  and  I will  help 
you.  If  you  tell  me  nothing  I will  elope  with  one  of  the 
grooms.  It  will  be  life  at  any  rate,  and  it  will  make  my 
mother  sorry  she  ever  sent  me  here  ! ” 

Gladys  did  not  reply,  but  a few  hours  after  she  said  to  the 
girl,  “ I am  going  to  London  to-morrow.  I will  take  you  to 
Illington  as  I pass  through  your  county.”  \ 

The  girl  embraced  her,  and  was  beside  herself  with  joy. 
But  she  could  not  resist  a covert  impertinence. 

“ Aubrey  is  in  London  ! ” she  said  with  a rude  smile. 

“ I suppose  he  is,  since  there  is  to  be  a winter  session,” 
plied  her  hostess.  “ I shall  not  stay  in  London.  I am  g^ing 
straight  to  Paris.” 

66 1 wish  you  would  take  me  with  you,”  said  Lady  Con- 
stance, repenting  that  she  had  not  made  herself  more  agree- 
able, and  hastily  computing  the  toilettes,  etrennes , and  pretty 
things  in  general  which  she  might  have  ie  got  out”  of  the 
mistress  of  Ladysrood  if  she  had  concealed  her  own  ennui  and 
acquired  influence. 

“ I am  very  sorry,  but  I cannot  do  that  for  you,’*  said 
Gladys.  “ I will  take  you  home,  where  you  have  so  much 
desired  to  be.  That  is  all  I can  do.” 

She  was  in  that  mood  in  which  a woman  will  rush  on  to 
her  own  torture  or  her  own  destruction,  and  would  not  stay 
though  a host  of  angels  and  archangels  stood  in  her  way  to 
turn  her  back  from  her  self-chosen  path. 

She  drove  rapidly  through  London  from  one  station  to  an- 
other ; at  the  latter  she  was  met  on  the  platform  by  Aubrey. 
He  had  received  a telegram  from  Illington  announcing  her 
departure,  and  Lady  Sunbury  had  had  only  time  to  add: — - 
“ Prevent  her  leaving  England  at  all  hazards ! ” 

The  express  was  on  the  point  of  departure;  he  had  no  time 
to  say  a word  ; he  entered  the  carriage  with  her. 

“ I must  speak  to  you,”  he  said  hurriedly.  “ I can  get 
back  to  the  House  by  eleven  o’clock.” 

She  did  not  reply  ; she  was  annoyed  and  offended.  She 
resented  this  treatment  of  her  as  of  some  imprudent  child 
whom  all  his  family  considered  they  had  a right  to  control. 
Aubrey  looked  tired  and  unwell. 

Times  in  England  were  troubled,  and  political  life  stormy 


0U1LDER0Y. 


265 


and  thankless.  He  did  not  relax  his  energies  ; hut  a weary 
sense  grew  on  him  more  strongly  every  year  that  the  combat 
was  useless,  and  that,  although  still  veiled  under  Parliament- 
ary formulas  and  constitutional  fictions,  the  country  was  prac- 
tically abandoned  to  mob-rule. 

And  he  looked  at  the  woman  whom  he  admitted  to  his  own 
thoughts  that  he  loved,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  powerless 
either  to  touch  her  heart  or  to  save  her  from  misery. 

She  was  very  pale ; even  her  lips  were  pale,  and  her  blue 
eyes  looked  almost  black  ; but  the  dark  furs  of  her  travelling 
hood  and  of  her  long  cloak  enhanced  the  whiteness  of  her 
complexion  and  the  brightness  of  her  hair.  She  sat  opposite 
to  him  in  silence ; she  was  deeply  resentful  of  his  presence 
there,  and  she  did  not  aid  him  by  a single  sentence. 

u You  are  going  to  join  Guilderoy  ?”  he  asked  abruptly  at 
length. 

“ Have  I no  right  to  do  so  ? ” she  asked  coldly. 

Aubrey  gave  a gesture  of  impatience. 

“When  women  speak  of  their  rights  their  joys  are  gone,” 
he  thought,  and  answered  aloud  : — “ Ho  one  could  dispute 
your  right,  my  dear.  But  it  is  not  always  wise  to  use  our 
right.  That  I have  said  to  you  often  before  now.” 

She  was  still  silent. 

“ You  had  my  letter  the  day  I left  you  at  Ladysrood  ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Yes.” 

“ And  it  made  no  impression  on  you  ?” 

“ It  was  very  noble,  no  doubt.  But  you  are  not  in  my 
place.  You  cannot  judge.” 

“ Can  you  judge  clearly,  do  you  think  ? How  much  do 
you  see  that  is  true,  and  how  much  distorted  ? How  much 
that  is  wise,  and  how  much  unwise  ? Feeling  is  a dangerous 
guide.  It  leads  us  into  fatal  errors.”  - 

“I  have  resisted  mine  long  enough.” 

“ And  you  are  tired  of  resistance.  That  I can  understand. 
But  if  you  are  wise,  my  dear,  and  unselfish,  you  will  continue 
to  resist.  What  good  can  it  do  for  you  to  see  him  in  your 
present  state  of  violent  irritation  ? ” 

“I  wish  to  know  the  truth. 

“ I would  rather,”  she  added  more  passionately,  “ know 
any  truth — the  worst  truth — than  live  like  a child,  like  an 
animal,  like  a plant — -told  nothing,  hearing  nothing,  uncon- 
sidered and  disregarded,  as  month  after  month  goes  on.  If 


266 


guild  e&  or. 


I am  not  dear  to  him,  I am  a burden  to  him:  there  can  be  no 
medium  between  the  two.  Let  him  say  so  to  me  honestly, 
and  I will  trouble  him  no  more.” 

6'  What  would  you  do  ? ” 

u I can  live  very  well  on  what  my  father  left  me.” 
u You  mean  that  you  will  separate  yourself  from  Guilde- 
roy  ? ” 

u Will  you  tell  me  why  I should  not  ? ” 
u There  are  a thousand  reasons.  Chief  of  all  there  is  the 
supreme  reason  that  you  belong  to  him,  and  that  you  care 
immensely  for  him,  though  you  now  only  listen  to  your 
anger.” 

Her  face  flushed. 

u It  is  an  insult  to  say  that  to  me.” 

“ My  dear  child,  I do  not  insult  anyone.  It  is  not  my 
habit.  It  is  the  highest  honor  to  her  that  a woman  should 
remain  faithful  quand mime.  You  seem  to  me  to  be  ashamed  of 
what  is  really  the  finest  quality  in  your  character.  Youth 
has  often  that  sort  of  mauvaise  honte  before  its  best  emo* 
tions.” 

u You  admire  Griseldis,  as  my  father  did  !” 

“ I do  not  ask  you  to  be  Griseldis.  You  are  not  beaten, 
outraged,  or  robbed  of  your  children  ; that  which  you  have 
to  complain  of  you  would  probably  have  been  spared  if  you 
had  endeavored  to  be  more  indulgent  and  to  pass  oyer  what 
would  never  have  been  thrust  on  you  if  you  had  not  looked 
for  it.” 

The  train  rushed  on  through  the  heavy  gray  darkness ; 
the  lamp  swung  above  their  heads,  and  its  yellow  light  shone 
on  her  face,  on  which  a great  anger  gathered. 

“ I know  you  only  care  for  his  reputation  because  he  is  a 
branch  of  your  own  great  house,”  she  said  coldly.  “ It  is  no 
doubt  natural  you  should  feel  so.  It  is  perhaps  as  natural 
that  I should  feel  otherwise.” 

“ That  is  untrue  and  unjust,”  said  Aubrey,  with  the  only 
sternness  she  had  ever  heard  from  him.  u I have  been  al- 
ways your  friend,  often  at  great  cost  to  myself,  and  I have 
more  than  once  run  all  risks  of  rupture  with  my  cousin  for 
your  sake  in  the  endeavor  to  persuade  him  to  give  you 
greater  happiness  and  greater  consideration.  I say  nothing 
more  to  you  than  your  own  father  said,  who  of  course  cared* 
alone  for  you  and  nothing  for  my  cousin.  I endeavor  to  dis-* 
suade  you  from  your  journey  now,  because  I know  that  to 


&UILDEBOY. 


267 


follow  Guilderoy  will  only  appear  to  him  espionage,  surveil- 
lance, interference,  curiosity — everything  which  is  most  irri- 
tating to  the  pride  and  to  the  liberty  of  man.  He  left  you 
in  irritation ; when  his  irritation  is  passed  he  will  return  to 
you,  if  you  do  not  of  your  own  accord  raise  some  insur- 
mountable obstacle.” 

She  did  not  reply  ; her  eyes  gazed  sombrely  through  the 
glass  at  the  darkness  of  the  night  and  the  reflections  of  the 
lamp. 

“ I entreat  you,”  he  continued,  u not  to  leave  England. 
In  England  you  are  with  all  of  us ; you  are  safe  in  reputa- 
tion and  in  circumstance.  Ladysrood  is  too  lonely  for  so 
young  a woman  as  you  are,  but  my  sister  will  be  beyond  ex- 
pression glad  if  you  will  stay  with  her  indefinitely,  wherever 
she  be.  She  said  so  to  me  only  this  morning.” 

“She  is  very  good,  but  I shall  not  trouble  her.” 

“ This  is  the  sheer  madness  of  obstinacy.  What  will  you 
accomplish  by  following  my  cousin  ? He  will  not  pardon  it 
if  you  follow  and  arraign  him.  What  good  can  it  possibly 
do  ? What  use  is  the  mere  momentary  indulgence  of  anger 
when  it  must  inevitably  be  followed  by  a lifetime  of  regret. 
The  greatest  evil  of  all  such  upbraidings  as  you  will  make  to 
him,  if  you  see  him  in  your  present  state  of  irritated  pain,  is 
that  in  them  everyone  says  so  much  more  than  they  wish  or 
mean ; wild  and  bitter  words  are  exchanged  which  can  never 
be  forgotten,  even  if  they  are  ever  pardoned,  and  that  which 
might  have  been  a mere  passing  sorrow,  a temporary  estrange- 
ment, is  deepened  and  widened  into  a life-long  enmity.  I 
have  said  to  you,  before,  ail  that  it  is  possible  to  say.  I only 
entreat  you  now  to  be  guided  by  it,  and  remain  in  England.” 

Her  heart  was  hardened  against  her  best  friend.  Like 
almost  every  woman,  she  was  only  capable  of  believing  that 
those  alone  loved  her  who  wholly  agreed  with  her  and, 
without  reserve,  sympathized  in  all  her  emotions.  She  had 
even  doubted  her  father’s  affection  for  her,  because  it  had 
been  critical  and  temperate  in  judgment.  Her  heart  now 
was  sore,  hurt,  apprehensive,  full  of  anger  and  yet  unbear- 
able indignation  ; she  would  have  liked  her  companion  to 
give  her  limitless,  unquestioning  consolation  and  indignation 
likewise.  She  longed  to  weep  her  heart  out  on  the  breast  of 
a friend ; to  cry  out  against  fate,  and  love,  and  earth  and 
heaven,  and  all  the  cruel  treacheries  of  human  life,  and  hear 
gome  voice  full  of  compassion  echo  all  he?  own  cries.  Bu$ 


268 


GU1LDER0T. 


Aubrey  seemed  to  her  only  to  rebuke  her,  only  to  palliate 
all  she  suffered  from,  only  to  study  the  interests  of  his  family 
and  the  conventionalities  of  the  world. 

It  closed  her  heart  te  him.  She  was  too  full  of  pain  and 
anger  both  to  penetrate  his  motives  or  even  for  an  instant 
to  dream  of  his  self-denial. 

He  was  powerless  to  persuade  or  to  control  her,  All  the 
influence  which  he  had  possessed  upon  her  before  was  lost  in 
the  flood  of  blind  and  passionate  impulses  let  loose  in  her  by 
the  pain  of  jealousy.  She  knew  well  enough  that  he  was 
right ; but  she  would  not  open  her  ears  to  his  counsels  or 
her  heart  to  his  kindness. 

If  he  had  been  less  loyal  to  his  cousin  he  might  have  been 
more  successful  in  his  persuasions.  If  he  had  conjured  her 
by  his  own  affection  he  might  have  prevailed  upon  her  to 
return.  But  no  syllable  which  could  have  been  even  influ- 
enced by  personal  desires  escaped  him.  John  Vernon  risen 
from  his  grave  could  not  have  spoken  with  more  absolute 
self-denial  than  he  did.  And  he  gained  no  influence,  he 
made  no  impression ; jealousy  and  indignation,  and  the  Bit- 
ter sense  of  ignorance  and  wrong,  were  all  hardening  her 
heart,  and  driving  her  on  in  strong  self-will,  regardless  of 
the  issue  of  the  fate  which  she  provoked. 

Every  argument  which  he  could  use,  every  inducement, 
conjuration,  and  even  prayer  which  he  could  call  to  his  aid 
he  exhausted  in  vain.  She  knew  that  her  husband  and  the 
woman  whom  he  had  told  her  he  loved  more  than  any  other 
creature  upon  earth,  were  somewhere  in  Italy  together.  Eng- 
land in  its  dark  and  early  wunter  seemed  to  her  only  like 
that  ice-prison  which  holds  the  bodies  of  the  damned  in  the 
verse  of  Dante. 

Wearied,  pained  and  mortified,  Aubrey  at  last  desisted  from 
his  endeavors  and  remained  silent  as  the  train  flew  through 
the  country  silences  onwards  towards  Dover. 

“ I am  not  my  cousin’s  keeper,”  he  thought  bitterly.  “ And 
very  likely  if  he  knew  what  I am  doing  now  he  would  only 
misconstrue  my  reasons,  and  rebuke  me  for  meddlesome  in- 
terference ! ” 

There  was  no  sound  but  that  of  the  oscillation  of  the  traim 
swinging  at  headlong  speed  over  its  iron  sleepers. 

Neither  spoke  again  till  the  journey  was  almost  done. 

66  You  will  not  warn  him  that  I am  going  away ! ” she 
.said  suddenly  once. 


GTJILDEBOY. 


209 


U1  am  not  an  informer,  as  I told  you  once  before,”  he 
answered  coldly.  “But  his  sister  will  no  doubt  find  some 
way  to  let  him  know  that  you  have  left  England.” 

“ It  does  not  matter,”  she  replied  as  coldly,  and,  she 
thought,  wretchedly.  “ He  never  changes  or  pauses  in  his 
wishes  for  me  ! ” 

The  silence  remained  unbroken  until  the  slackening  of  the 
speed  of  the  train  told  them  that  they  were  near  the  docks 
of  Dover.  Then  Aubrey,  stooped  a little  forward,  and, 
resting  his  gray  eyes  upon  her  sadty,  said  with  great  gentle- 
ness, yet  with  a coldness  which  she  had  never  heard  from 
him : — 

“ If  you  have  any  true  confidence  in  my  judgment  and  in 
my  affection  for  you,  listen  to  me  now.  Return  here  and 
wait  till  Guilderoy  comes  to  you  of  his  own  accord.  If  you 
have  patience  that  time  will  not  be  long.” 

She  heard  the  wise  words  with  the  impatience  of  a woman 
who  knows  beforehand  what  advice  she  is  about  to  receive, 
and  has  beforehand  decided  to  follow  none  of  it.  Aubrey 
seemed  to  her  cold,  unsympathetic,  conventional  ; she  wanted 
his  grief  and  indignation  as  her  support  ; she  was  almost 
unjust  enough  to  say  herself  that  the  clannish  feeling  of 
family  dignity  made  him  think  more  of  preserving  his 
cousin’s  name  from  public  comment  than  of  her  own  per- 
sonal pain.  She  was  in  that  state  when  every  form  of  con- 
solation or  counsel  seems  an  irritant  or  a mockery  ; when, 
as  Horace  has  it,  anger  being  unbridled  becomes  the  violent 
tyrant  of  the  soul. 

“ I have  a right  to  know.  I have  a right  to  know,”  she 
repeated  to  herself.  They  all  seemed  to  deny  her  that  right ; 
they  all  seemed  to  think  that  she  should  submit  to  stay  in 
tutelage  and  acquiescence,  asking  nothing  and  arranging 
nothing  until  her  husband  should  at  his  good  will  and  pleas- 
ure deign  to  recall  once  more  the  fact  that  she  existed. 

Their  names  were  great,  no  doubt,  and  their  lives  were 
before  the  world  ; hut  if  he  chose  to  sully  them  and  give 
them  to  idle  calumny  it  was  no  fault  of  hers. 

There  was  a brief  and  tempestuous  winter  session  then  on, 
from  which  it  was  impossible  for  Aubrey  to  absent  himself 
even  a day.  Even  if  he  could  have  done  so,  he  might  have 
been  the  cause  of  more  harm  than  good,  he  thought,  if  he 
forced  his  presence  upon  her  in  the  journey  on  which  her 
heart  was  set.  Even  his  cousin  himself,  uncertain  of  temper 


270 


GUILDEROY . 


and  capricious  in  his  judgments,  might  look  on  such  an  in« 
terference  with  wrong  interpretation  of  it.  He  saw  nothing 
that  he  could  do,  for  the  time  being,  except  to  leare  her  to 
her  own  choice  of  action.  Things  might,  perchance,  become 
better  than  he  feared  they  would  do. 

He  knew  that  it  is  of  little  use  to  try  to  be  the  providence 
for  other  lives.  The  unforeseen  is  sure  to  intervene,  and  ac- 
cident at  every  moment  overturns  the  schemes  and  the  wishes 
of  man  with  a fractiousness  which  no  one  can  prevent. 

“ You  must  take  your  own  way,  my  dear,”  he  said,  with  a 
sigh.  “I  hope  you  will  never  regret  it!” 

Then  he  accompanied  her  on  to  the  vessel  and  bade  her 
farewell. 

The  night  was  cold  but  clear  ; a strong  sparkling  frosty 
sky  and  a scarcely  ruffled  sea.  He  held  her  hand  a moment 
in  his  as  he  parted  from  her  on  the  deck. 

“ I am  sorry  I cannot  come  with  you  to  Paris,”  he  said, 
with  a great  coldness  despite  himself,  still  in  his  tone.  “ But 
I must  be  in  the  House  to-night  by  eleven  at  latest.  God 
bless  you,  dear;  since  you  will  go,  be  prudent  and  be  unself- 
ish. Women  suffer  much  at  times  no  doubt  from  the  selfish- 
ness of  men,  but  sometimes  I think  they  repent  their  own 
more  bitterly  when  they  give  way  to  it.  And  how  often 
mere  selfishness  is  called  love.” 

Then  he  let  her  hand  go,  and  left  her  standing  on  the  deck 
of  the  steamship  under  the  clear  cold  skies. 

His  heart  was  heavy,  as  a special  train  carried  him  back- 
ward in  his  solitude  to  Westminster  as  fast  as  steam  could 
bear  him  through  the  night. 

“ You  filled  my  barren  life  with  treasure  ; 

You  may  withdraw  the  gifts  you  gave 

he  thought,  in  the  words  of  the  unknown  writer  to  which  he 
had  taken  a causeless  fancy.  “Nay,  she  has  given  me  no 
treasure  at  all,  and  she  takes  away  nothing  because  she  gave 
nothing.  The  gift  was  given  to  a life  not  barren,  but  already 
over  full,  and  I have  no  part  or  share  in  either  her  pleasures 
or  her  joys.  Why  should  I have  ? She  has  used  me  like  a 
good  big  dog  which  could  swim  through  some  rough  currents 
to  save  her  ; but  she  is  now  in  the  deep  sea,  and  if  she  can 
be  saved  it  cannot  be  by  me.” 

And  that  tempter  which  dwells  in  the  heart  of  man,  and 
which  he  had  once  said  at  Ladysrood  made  it  almost  possible 


GUILDEROY. 


271 


to  believe  in  the  old-world  myths  of  devilish  agencies, 
whispered  to  him  now,  if  he  had  been  less  loyal,  if  he  had 
done  as  other  men  would  have  done,  if  he  had  used  his  many 
opportunities  and  his  power  of  influence  over  her  to  turn  her 
heart  away  from  his  cousin,  and  win  it  in  its  revulsion  and 
reaction  to  himself,  he  would  have  done  no  more  than  what 
nearly  every  man  would  have  done  in  his  place,  and  in  the 
issue  she  might  have  been  consoled,  and  he  at  the  least  been 
happy. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

The  steamer  meantime  passed  on  its  little  voyage  through 
the  still  frosty  air,  and  over  the  liquid  darkness  of  the  sea. 
Gladys,  enwrapped  in  her  black  sables,  stayed  on  deck  in- 
sensible to  cold.  She  was  only  conscious  of  the  febrile 
excitement  within  her,  and  of  that  momentary  solace  which 
is  always  found  in  any  physical  movement  which  relieves 
or  distracts  great  anxiety. 

She  went  straight  to  Paris,  and  descended  at  an  hotel  in- 
stead of  at  the  house  which  Guilderoy  rented  in  the  Avenue 
de  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and  which  was  then  shut  up  and  left  in 
charge  of  the  Suisse.  She  did  not  wish  her  movements 
to  be  known  to  anyone.  She  inquired  at  the  English  Em- 
bassy where  Lord  Guilderoy  was.  With  some  surprise,  and, 
she  thought,  with  some  embarrassment,  his  friends  there  told 
her  that  they  believed  he  was  in  Venice  still ; they  had  heard 
no  change  of  address  from  him.  She  left  them  to  think  or 
conclude  what  they  chose,  and  went  to  Venice,  as  Aubrey 
had  done  before  her.  At  his  palace,  where  they  received  her 
with  obsequious  deference,  she  heard  that  he  had  left  there 
three  weeks  before,  but  where  he  was  they  could  not  say ; he 
had  left  no  address.  She  perceived  that  it  was  an  excuse,  a 
falsehood,  but  they  were  at  least  loyal  to  the  instructions 
they  had  received ; she  did  not  try  to  bribe  them  into  dis- 
obedience, which  could  easily  have  been  done.  She  paused 
for  a few  days  at  the  house,  which  was  always  kept  in  perfect 
readiness  for  his  arrival.  She  thought  it  probable  that  he 
might  return. 

It  was  cold  in  Venice,  but  it  did  not  seem  so  .to  her  after 
the  north  winds  which  had  been  sweeping  over  the  woods 
and  moors  of  Ladysrood  when  she  had  left  it.  The  sun  was 


272 


GtllLLEBOT. 


radiant ; the  green  canals  still  basked  in  light,  the  silvery 
lagoons  bore  the  little  islands  on  their  breasts,  the  .Jstrian 
brigs  were  unloading  their  loads  of  wood  in  the  (?iudecca, 
the  Greek  traders  were  landing  their  varied  cargoes  at  the 
Custom-house,  the  many-colored  fleet  of  little  fishing  vessels 
anchored  off  the  Canareggio  and  the  Botanic  gardens ; the 
scene  was  always  charming,  various,  gay — a panorama  of 
moving,  noiseless,  delicately-tinted  life. 

She  acknowledged  its  charm;  but  it  made  her  heart  al- 
most heavier  than  it  had  been  under  the  wintry  shadows  and 
dusky  mists  of  Ladysrood.  As  she  let  the  gondoliers  take 
her  over  the  water  and  thread  their  way  with  unerring  ac- 
curacy through  the  crowded  craft  of  the  Canale  d’Orfano,  she 
lived  over  again  every  moment  of  the  first  weeks  she  had 
spent  in  Venice.  All  that  passion  spent  on  them  seemed  to 
her  like  a dream — some  remembered  poem  that  could  have 
nothing  in  common  with  her  own  life.  Woman  can  never 
habituate  herself  to  the  early  and  abrupt  cessation  of  all 
love’s  instincts  and  caresses,  which  to  the  man  seems  so 
natural  and  so  inevitable.  With  her  that  fairy  story  should 
be  told  with  the  same  ardor  every  recurrent  year ; to  him 
it  is  as  dead  as  last  year’s  leaves. 

At  times,  as  she  drifted  through  the  silvery  wintry  air,  she 
blamed  herself,  recalling  every  word  of  counsel  which  her 
father  and  Aubrey  had  addressed  to  her. 

She  had  been  unwise,  she  knew,  to  speak  as  she  had  last 
spoken  to  her  husband.  She  had  been  unwise  to  reject  his 
proposal  to  travel  with  her  into  distant  lands  ; she  had  done 
wrong  to  repulse  so  coldly  that  share  in  her  sorrow  which  he 
had  offered  her  with  sincere  and  delicate  sympathy.  All  this 
she  knew.  But  the  vision  of  his  other  passions  had  stood 
between  him  and  herself,  and  there  was  now  forever  sound- 
511  g in  her  ear  the  avowal  of  his  love  for  Beatrice  Soria. 

That  one  bitter  and  restless  remembrance  haunted  her, 
md  would  not  let  her  stay  in  peace  amongst  the  gliding 
haters  and  soothing  stillness  of  Venice.  She  did  not  know 
where  he  might  be.  She  could  not  write  to  inquire  of  mere 
strangers.  She  had  the  whole  of  Italian  journals  which  were 
sold  at  the  news-stalls  bought  and  brought  to  her.  He  was 
so  well  known  in  Italy  that  she  thought  his  movements 
would  be  observed  and  chronicled,  however  much  he  might 
try  to  guard  against  it. 

For  several  days  she  saw  nothing;  on  the  ninth  day  sho 


GVILDEROT. 


' ' 273 


read  in  one  of  the  sheets  a little  line  announcing  that  he  was 
still  in  Naples.  She  knew  from  the  Venetians  that  he  had 
left  them  some  twenty  days  before.  It  seemed  to  her  clear 
as  the  golden  moon  rising  above  the  Euagnean  mountains 
that  he  was  with  her  rival. 

The  voice  of  her  father  seemed  to  say  to  her  from  his 
grave,  “ Do  not  go  thither;  do  not  try  to  compel  Fate.” 

She  had  done  all  that  she  could  do  to  keep  off  the  inquisitive- 
ness of  society ; she  had  done  more  than  many  would  have 
done  to  offer  a serene  and  harmonious  surface-existence  to 
the  stare  of  curiosity  and  malignity.  But,  beneath  all  that, 
the  aching  heart  of  her  youth  was  angered  and  seething  like 
a sea  in  storm  ; under  all  her  apparent  and  enforced  compos- 
ure the  blindest  and  maddest  of  all  the  passions — jealousy, 
was  tearing  her  soul  asunder. 

“ I have  a right  at  least  to  know,”  she  told  herself  a thou- 
sand times,  lying  awake  in  what  had  been  her  nuptial  cham- 
ber ; listening  to  the  lapping  of  the  water,  on  the  marble 
stairs  below,  all  the  long  night  through  until  the  sound  of 
the  cannon  fired  at  sunrise  in  the  Giudecca  told  her  that 
another  dreary,  empty,  anxious,  desolate  day  had  come. 

“ I have  a right  to  know,”  she  thought,  and,  allowing 
Aubrey’s  letter  to  be  unanswered,  she  left  the  Venetian  sea- 
mists  and  water-ways,  and  went,  also,  southward  through  the 
amber  sunrays  and  the  roseate  lights  of  a luminous  winter’s 
day  spreading  with  noontide-  golden  and  glorious  over  the 
lagoons  and  the  meadows  of  the  Brenta. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

It  was  now  the  close  of  November.  Beatrice  Soria  was  at 
the  great  palace  of  the  Soria,  fronting  the  sea,  where  she 
still  ruled  supreme  by  virtue  of  her  young  children,  over 
whose  lives  she  was  left  sole  and  complete  guardian.  This 
palace  was  one  of  the  marvels  of  the  south,  built  by  Angelo 
Fiori,  with  ceilings  by  Domenichino,  and  frescoes  by  Simone 
Papa.  Its  fagade  dominated  the  sea ; to  its  rear  stretched 
large  and  beautiful  gardens.  It  was  here  that  Guilderoy 
bad  first  succumbed  to  her  charms  in  one  soft,  gay,  Neapolitan 

18 


274 


BUILDEROT. 


/ 


winter,  which  ever  remained  on  the  memories  sm 


as  the  one  perfect  page  in  their  book  of  life. 

It  was  years  ago  now  ; but  every  detail  and  hotir  of  it 
seemed  to  comeback  to  him  as  on  a magic  glass,  as  he  saw  the 


and  terraces,  and  mole  of  marble.  Every  delicious  and  en- 
chanted moment  passed  there  revived  in  his  remembrance ; 
all  that  their  intimacy  had  had  of  ntorm,  of  dispute,  of  doubt, 
of  jealousy,  of  too  arrogant  dominion,  had  all  faded  from  his 
mind  as  though  they  had  never  been.  His  memories  re- 
tained only  the  glow  and  glory  of  its  noontide  light.  He 
utterly  forgot  the  thunder  clouds  which  had  often  broken 
over  the  golden  beauty  of  those  days  of  love. 

When  at  length  he  roused  himself  from  the  memories  with 
which  he  stood  on  the  strip  of  shore  below  and  gazed  at  the 
mass  of  sculpture  towering  above  him,  and  mounted  the 
great  stairway  from  the  sea  and  asked  of  the  guardian  of  its 
gates  if  the  Duchess  Soria  would  receive  him,  he  was  met  by 
an  inflexible  denial.  Her  Excellency  received  no  one  except 
from  four  to  six  o’clock  every  Saturday  afternoon,  and  again 
on  Monday  evenings  from  ten.  It  was  then  Tuesday. 

“ With  the  crowd  ! — never,”  he  said  to  himself ; and  turned 
away,  with  feverish  impatience  and  an  aching  heart. 

He  passed  the  day  wandering  beside  the  sea  or  in  the 
streets. 

At  night  he  wrote  to  her;  the  first  letter  he  had  addressed 
to  her  since  that  in  which  he  had  announced  his  marriage. 
His  declarations  were  as  ardent  and  as  comprehensive  in  it 
as  those  of  Tibullus  to  Cerinthe  in  the  thirteenth  carmen  of 
the  fourth  book.  He  received  no  answer;  and  he  was  as 
wretched  as  Cerinthe’s  lover. 

On  tli  third  day  after  he  had  sent  it,  his  heart  beat 
breathlessly  at  sight  of  a large  envelope,  with  the  two  gold 
crowns  on  it,  directed  in  the  handwriting  which  he  had  once 
known  so  well,  and  which  had  sent  him  letters  which  at  one 
time  lie  had  worn  in  his  breast  and  which  at  another  time  he 
had  held  to  a lighted  match  and  burnt. 

He  opened  the  envelope  with  intense  anxiety  and  sus- 
pense. But  it  was  only  a card  printed  in  gold  which 
announced  that  the  Duchess  Soria  might  be  visited  in  “ prima 
sera”  on  Monday  evenings.  There  was  no  written  word 
with  it ; only  his  name  filling  up  the  blank  space  left  for  that 
purpose  on  the  card. 


long  white  majesty  of  the  great  house  tower  above  its  stairs 


GTJILDEROY. 


275 


u Can  any  woman  forget  so  utterly ! 99  he  thought  in 
passion  and  pain,  oblivious  that  if  she  had  learned  the 
lesson  of  forgetting,  he  had  been  the  first  to  teach  it  to  her. 

His  pride  told  him  to  leave  Naples  at  once  without  seeing 
her;  he  felt  that  there  was  neither  dignity  nor  courage  in 
remaining  a suppliant  at  the  gates  of  one  who  once  had  been 
wholly  his. 

The  remonstrances  of  Aubrey  haunted  him  with  persistent 
reproach,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  saw  his  own 
conduct  in  its  true  light.  But  the  ascendancy  which  Beatrice 
Soria  possessed  over  him  was  stronger  even  than  the  impulses 
of  pride.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  leave  the  scene  of 
their  former  joys,  the  place  where  soonest,  if  ever,  her  heart 
would  return  to  him  on  tlie  impulse  of  memory. 

Moreover,  others  who  admired  or  adored  her,  others  freer 
than  he  to  prove  their  homage,  had  followed  her  thither  also, 
and  an  intense  jealousy  of  all  that  was  possible  in  her  future 
held  him.  There  as  of  old,  in  those  smiling  seas,  the  syrens 
had  held  too  reckless  mortals  in  their  power,  and  so  hers 
held  him  now  upon  these  shores.  He  remained  as  though 
he  were  a boy  of  twenty,  spending  his  hours  beneath  the 
sea-walls  of  her  palace,  and  trusting  to  some  favoring  hazard 
to  afford  him  that  unwitnessed  interview  with  her  which  he 
sought.  He  did  not  accept  her  permission  to  approach  her 
with  the  crowd  at  her  receptions.  He  felt  that  he  could  not 
trust  himself  to  see  her  first  again  before  a throng,  of  which 
many  would  be  strangers  and  all  would  be  odious  to  him. 
Every  day  at  sunset  she  drove,  like  other  great  ladies  of  the 
city ; and  every  day  at  sunset  he  was  standing  or  riding  near 
when  her  great  bronze  gates  unclosed.  She  gave  him  a 
salutation  and  a smile,  but  never  checked  her  horses.  He 
saw,  or  imagined  that  he  saw,  in  the  smile  a triumphant 
mockery  of  himself.  He  was  mistaken  ; it  was  merely  the 
slight  smile  of  courtesy  which  any  well-bred  woman  gives  to 
an  acquaintance. 

There  was  no  movement  of  society  at  that  time  in  the 
city.  The  great  world  of  Naples  never  bestirs  itself  until 
Carnival  comes.  The  populace  were  wild  and  mirthful  in  the 
streets  as  usual,  but  none  of  the  great  houses  were  opened 
except  hers.  She  had  all  the  customs  of  a wider  world  than 
that  of  the  Neapolitans,  and  had  never  been  bound  by  their 
observances. 

The  empty  and  fruitless  days  succeeded  gne  another  and 


276 


GUILDEROY . 


brought  him  nothing  that  he  wished.  At  last  he  remem 
bered  that  golden  key  which  the  classic  lovers  of  this  soil  rec- 
ommend to  those  who  would  see  unclose  a door  too  cruelly 
shut  against  them.  All  things  are  saleable  still  in  the  land 
of  Ovid  and  Tibullus,  and  the  honesty  of  no  guardian  of  the 
lares  is  more  proof  now  than  then  against  a bribe.  He  saw, 
and  looked  at  enviously,  in  the  high  wall  of  the  garden,  the 
iron  grating  of  the  postern  gate,  by  which  he  had  used  to 
have  the  right  of  entrance  at  his  pleasure.  The  same  creep- 
ing plants  hung  over  it  as  in  other  years;  the  same  black- 
birds plucked  at  the  black  berries  of  its  flowering  ivy  ; the 
same  great  magnolia  trees  shrouded  it  in  deepest  shade  ; the 
same  sound  of  falling  water  came  from  the  fountains  behind 
it,  and  the  same  cripple  lay  on  the  road  fronting  it,  stretch- 
ing out  his  brown  and  filthy  hand  for  alms.  Nothing  was 
changed  except  himself,  nothing  gone  except  his  privileges. 
He  even  heard  the  very  voice  of  the  same  dog  as,  aroused  by 
the  sound  of  his  footsteps,  it  ran  barking  along  the  wall 
within. 

In  time,  and  with  some  difficulty — for  the  dependents  of 
the  Soria  palace  valued  their  place  and  feared  to  lose  it — the 
potent  talisman  of  gain  succeeded  in  drawing  back  the  rusted 
bolts  of  the  little  iron  door,  and  the  underling,  who  had  be- 
trayed his  mistress  for  a handful  of  paper  money,  held  back 
the  dog  as  Guilderoy  passed  into  the  evergreen  shades  of  the 
familiar  garden  paths.  But  the  dog,  escaping  from  the 
gardener’s  hold,  ran  to  him  and  leaped  joyfully  on  him. 

“Poor  Pyrrho,  do  you  remember  me?  You  are  more 
merciful  than  your  mistress ! ” he  murmured,  as  he  caressed 
the  dog,  profoundly  touched  by  its  affectionate  welcome.  He 
walked  on  under  the  deep  aisles  of  bay  and  laurel. 

It  was  dark  here  in  the  gardens,  though  only  the  first  stars 
had  risen  over  the  sea.  He  had  chosen  the  hour  at  which 
she  would  be  sure  to  have  returned  from  her  drive ; her  din- 
ner hour  was  not  until  nine,  he  knew,  and  when  she  came 
in  it  was  her  habit  to  sit  alone  awhile  in  a small  room  hung 
entirely  with  allegorical  paintings  by  Albani,  and  having 
great  windows  looking  towards  the  sea.  It  served  her  as  a 
boudoir  and  a library  in  one.  Here  again  and  again,  hun- 
dreds of  times  he  had  found  her  of  old  reading  some  new 
German  or  French  book  of  philosophy,  or  the  verses  of  some 
Latin  poet. 

He  entered  the  house  by  the  garden  loggia  and  the  apart- 


GUILDEROY. 


277 


ments  wliich  were  called  the  garden-rooms.  The  servants 
were  then  closing  the  shutters  for  the  night ; but  they  knew 
him  and  were  not  surprised  to  see  him  there,  and  one  of 
them  ushered  him  without  question  through  the  house  to  the 
little  chamber  which  was  called  the  Salotto  di  Albani. 

She  was  seated  with  her  back  to  the  door,  reading,  or 
seeming  to  read.  The  light  from  the  lamp  fell  on  the  dark 
gold  of  her  hair,  which  was  the  hair  of  Palma  Vecehio’s  Bar- 
bara. He  could  only  see  the  crown  of  her  head  and  one  fold 
of  her  velvet  gown,  the  hue  of  the  dark  side  of  an  olive  leaf  ; 
all  else  was  hidden  by  the  carved  back  of  her  large  chair. 

He  saw  her  thus  through  the  parting  of  the  velvet  cur- 
tains hanging  before  the  door.  Two  lamps  were  burning  low, 
and  shed  a roseate  light  on  the  room ; the  windows,  still  un- 
shuttered, showed  the  serene  night,  in  which  a flush  of  day 
still  lingered. 

He  motioned  the  servant  backward,  and  the  man,  who  had 
known  him  well  in  other  days  and  had  then  always  let  him 
enter  unannounced,  allowed  him  to  do  so  now,  and  closed  the 
door  noiselessly. 

In  a moment,  before  the  Duchess  Soria  had  even  looked  up 
from  the  volume  she  was  reading,  Guilderoy  had  crossed  the 
room  and  was  at  her  feet. 

She  withdrew  her  gown  from  the  eager  clasp  of  his  hands, 
and  a flush  of  anger  rose  over  her  face. 

“ You  have  bribed  my  servants  ! ” she  said  with  unutter- 
able scorn. 

“ You  left  me  no  other  way.  You  would  not  answer  me. 
You  would  not  see  me  alone.” 

“ Why  should  I see  you  alone  ? As  for  answer  I already 
answered  enough — more  than  enough — at  Aix.” 

“It  is  an  answer  which  I will  not  take.” 

“You  must  take  it,  since  it  is  my  will  to  give  it.” 

She  withdrew  her  hands  from  his  hold  with  something  of 
the  violence  which  he  had  once  known  in  her. 

He  kissed  the  folds  of  her  skirts. 

“ I will  not  take  it ; I do  not  believe  in  it.  All  can  never 
be  over  between  us.  Here,  in  this  sacred  room,  which  heard 
my  earliest  vows  to  you,  I swear  that  you  are  the  only  woman 
whom  I have  ever  loved  in  my  whole  life.” 

“ To  how  many  women  have  you  said  so  ? And  how  dare 
you  recall  vows  which  were  only  uttered,  to  be  forsworn  ? n 


278 


GUILDEROY. 


“ I have  said  so  to  no  other  woman.  No  other — -living  or 
dead.” 

“ You  have  said  so  at  least  to  your  wife  ? 99 

“ Never.  I never  loved  her.” 

“ Then  why  did  you  marry  her  ? No  woman  can  have 
either  compassion  or  respect  for  any  man  who  knows  what  he 
wishes  so  little  as  that.” 

He  colored  with  offended  pride  and  irritated  pain. 

“I  am  human,”  he  said  angrily.  “Men  have  never,  that 
I know  of,  in  any  part  of  the  world’s  history,  been  conspicu- 
ous for  consistency  where  their  passions  were  involved.” 

“ Do  you  not  understand  what  an  insult  to  all  passion  such 
inconsistency  is  ? ” 

“ No ; passion  is,  in  its  very  essence,  wayward  and  shifting 
as  the  winds.  You  reproach  me  with  my  mutability.  But 
you  only  do  so  because  you  will  not  endeavor  to  understand. 
It  is  only  comprehension  that  is  ever  pitiful.” 

She  looked  at  him  with  a long  gaze,  under  which  his  own 
eyes  fell. 

“ I think  I understand  you  perfectly,”  she  said  in  her  low, 
sweet,  dreamy  voice.  “You  study  your  own  pleasure.  You 
do  not  consider  anything  beyond  it.  I loved  you  immensely. 
It  is  no  flattery  to  you  to  say  so,  since  for  nearly  seven  years 
I never  disguised  it  from  you,  and  the  grave  of  your  child  is 
there  in  attestation  of  it.  You  knew  that  you  were  my 
world  ; yet  the  moment  that  anew  caprice  attracted  you,  you 
dismissed  me  with  scarcely  more  consideration  than  you 
would  have  shown  to  a femme  entretemie . I said  nothing; 
I could  not  avenge  it,  and  women  of  my  character  do  not 
complain  or  appeal.  Now,  because  you  see  me  sought 
by  other  men,  or  because,  perhaps,  your  feeling  for  me 
was  of  a deeper  kind  than  you  knew,  you  are  as  ready 
to  throw  aside  your  allegiance  to  others  as  you  were  ready 
then  to  throw  aside  yours  to  me  for  them.  Why  should  I 
give  you  either  pity  or  credence  ? Why  should  I believe  in 
the  strength  of  feelings  which  have  never  been  more  stable 
than  a marsh-light  which  flits  hither  and  thither  ? You  do 
not  know  what  love  is.  You  have  too  much  self-love  to 
know  it.” 

He  sighed  as  he  heard  her ; his  conscience  told  him  that 
there  was  truth  in  the  charge.  Yet  he  knew  that  his  love 
for  her  was  very  great;  what  proof  could  he  give  her  which 
would  persuade  her  of  its  strength  ? 


GUILDEROY . 


279 


“You  are  unmerciful  like  all  women/’  he  said  at  last, 
H May  I,  without  offence,  tell  you  a truth  also  ? I did  love 
you  greatly — as  much  as  it  is  in  me  to  love  at  all.  But  you 
tried  me  often.  You  were  too  exacting,  too  imperious,  too 
passionate.  We  always  revolt  when  we  feel  the  curb.  It 
was  a momentary  impatience,  not  of  you,  but  of  the  domin- 
ion you  sought  to  have  over  me,  which  made  me  fancy  that 
in  marriage’  I might  perhaps  find  greater  tranquillity  and 
paore  genuine  peace.” 

“ Beside  which,  Lady  Guilderoy  was  very  lovely,  and  you 
wished  for  her,  and  you  had  never  denied  yourself  any  whim  or 
any  desire  ! It  is  very  possible  that  I was  unwise  and  ex- 
acting. Few  women  are  otherwise j,  and  I have  one  preten- 
sion I confess,  one  which  you  knew  of  old  : I reign  alone,  or 
I reign  not  at  all.” 

Guilderoy  smiled  wearily. 

“ Is  that  worthy,  of  your  knowledge  of  our  weaknesses  ? ” 

“ Perhaps  not.  I make  no  claim  to  consistency.  But 
what  I claim  I give.  The  world  considers  me  a coquette 
because  I have  power  over  men.  But  I have  never  been 
a coquette  in  the  sense  of  dividing  my  affections.  I will 
admit,  even  though  it  flatters  you,  that  I have  always  been 
true  to  you  though  you  were  false  to  me.” 

He  bowed  his  head  and  kissed  her  hands.  His  eyes  were 
dim  with  tears. 

“Did  you  doubt  it  ?”  she  said  with  a little  disdain.  “How 
little  our  lovers  know  of  us  ! Our  hearts  beat  against  theirs, 
and  our  lives  mingle  with  theirs,  and  yet  they  go  from  us 
knowing  no  more  of  our  real  natures  than  if  they  had  em- 
braced things  of  wood  or  of  wax ! Is  it  stupidity  or  indif- 
ference ? I suppose  it  is  the  immense  blindness  of  self-love. 
And  you  are  all  of  you  so  blunt  in  your  perceptions,  and  so 
coarse,”  she  pursued.  “ If  a woman  has  hazarded  her  posi- 
tion for^  you,  though  you  know  she  is  all  yours,  and  is  as 
faithful  as  Dido,  as  tender  as  Hero,  yet  in  your  rude  and 
clumsy  classifications  you  will,  in  your  own  thoughts,  bracket 
her  with  Lydia  and  Lais.  ” 

She  put  his  hands  off  hers  almost  roughly  for  a woman  of 
such  slow  and  languid  grace  of  movement. 

“ Hot  I,”  he  murmured,  gazing  at  her  wfith  eyes  in  wThich 
she  might  read  more  than  the  worship  of  old. 

“ Oh,  yes  ! you — you  more,  perhaps,  than  most  men. 
When  you  wrote  me  your  letter  of  farewell  you  ended  it  in 


280 


GUILLEROr. 


delicate  phrases  because  you  are  a gentleman,  but  the  truth 
which  pierced  through  them  was  that  you  left  me  as  you 
would  have  left  any  bought  companion  of  your  pleasures.” 
“No;  ten  thousand  times  no!”  he  said  vehemently. 
“You  imagined  what  was  not  there.  You  exaggerated 
the  offence  to  you.  Women  always  will.  I might  be 
ungrateful,  unworthy,  failing  in  appreciation  and  penetration 
as  you  say,  but  I never  for  a moment  failed  to  render  you 
the  honor  that  you  merit.” 

She  smiled  faintly. 

“Since  you  left  me  how  can  you  expect  me  to  believe  it  ? 
If  you  leave  your  wife  to-morrow  will  she  believe  that  you 
honor  her  ? ” 

“ Why  will  you  speak  of  her  ? ” 

“We  must  speak  of  her.  She  exists.” 

“ Let  me  forget  that  she  does  so  ! ” 

The  same  faint  dreamy  smile  came  on  her  mouth  ; he  could 
not  tell  whether  she  believed  or  disbelieved  him,  whether  she 
esteemed  him  true  or  false,  whether  she  loved  him  still  or  had 
put  him  wholly  from  her  inner  life. 

“ You  must  be  aware  that  your  offence  to  me  is  one  which 
no  woman  who  has  any  pride  can  pardon.  You  love  me,  you 
do  not  love  me,  you  think  you  love  me  again,  you  vacillate, 
you  doubt,  you  forsake,  you  adore ; and  you  expect  me  to 
humbly  await  you  while  your  heart  oscillates  to  and  fro,  now 
close  to  mine,  now  leagues  away  from  mine.” 

“ I expect  nothing,”  he  said  bitterly.  “ I have  lost  the 
right  to  expect,  if  I were  ever  happy  enough  to  possess  it.  Only, 
if  you  will  tell  me  any  test  by  which  I can  prove  you  my 
sincerity,  tell  me  what  it  is,  and  then  you  will  learn  whether 
I now  speak  on  mere  caprice  or  not.” 

She  was  silent,  while  all  the  light  of  her  deep  and  lustrous 
eyes  seemed  to  plunge  into  his  and  through  them  search  his 
inmost  soul.  She  was  silent  *ome  moments,  and  she  oomld 
hear  the  loud  fast  beating  of  his  heart. 

“ There  is  only  one  test  possible  for  me  to  accept  or  to  be- 
lieve in,”  she  said  at  last. 

“ Tell  me  what  it  is  ; or,  indeed,  I will  consent  to  it  un- 
told.” 

“ Do  not  be  too  rash,”  she  said,  with  a cold  and  momen- 
tary smile.  “You  must,  however,  know  very  well  what  it  is. 
Leave  your  wife  forever  and  I shall  believe  in  your  love  fo| 
me.” 


GUILDEROY . 


281 


He  turned  away  pale  and  was  mute. 

“ You  hesitate  ? ” she  said  with  interrogation  and  disdain. 

He  sighed  heavily. 

“ It  is  a demand  which  does  not  affect  myself  alone.” 

“Did  your  demand  of  the  past  affect  yourself  alone  ? 
What  demand  of  love,  or  of  life,  can  ever  concern  oneself 
alone  ? ” 

“You  mean  to  leave  her  publicly  ? ” 

“Yes;  nothing  less  than  that.  I will  accept  no  divided 
allegiance.  It  was  for  her  that  you  insulted  me.  It  must 
now  be  her  whom  you  surrender  for  me.” 

He  was  silent. 

“My  honor,”  he  said  at  last,  but  he  hesitated,  and  she 
filled  up  the  sentence. 

“ Your  honor ! You  mean  your  conventional  deference  to 
the  world’s  opinion.  You  are  weary  of  your  wife,  you  shun, 
dislike,  and  avoid  her,  but  you  consider  your  honor  saved,  if 
you  affect  with  her,  for  society,  a union  which  has  wholly 
ceased  to  exist  either  in  fact  or  feeling,  I tell  you  you  know 
nothing  of  genuine  passion  or  vital  pain.  You  are  honest 
neither  to  myself  or  her.” 

He  was  silent ; he  breathed  heavily ; his  heart  was  torn 
between  conflicting  emotions. 

“ Remember,  said  Beatrice  Soria  coldly,  “ I do  not  ask  this 
of  you  ; I do  not  even  wish  it ; much  less  do  I counsel  it.  I 
only  say,  as  I have  a right  to  say,  that  such  alone  is  the  proof 
of  your  sincerity  which  I can  accept  or  credit.  You  already 
seek  from  me  patience,  forgiveness,  and  oblivion  of  no  com- 
mon sort ; I have  a right  to  answer  that  I can  only  give  you 
these  on  certain  conditions.  You  can  fulfil  them  or  reject 
them  as  you  please.  There  was  a time,  I confess,  when  I 
could  have  died  of  the  pain  of  your  abandonment.  But  that 
time  is  past.  You  have  taught  me  to  live  without  you.  I 
can  do  so  now  and  in  the  future.  It  is  a lesson  which  no 
man  who  is  wise  teaches  to  any  woman.” 

He  sighed  as  he  heard  : the  words  were  the  same  in 
meaning  as  those  which  Aubrey  had  spoken  to  him  of  his 
wife. 

“ What  are  your  conditions  ? ” he  asked  in  a low  voice. 
“ Tell  me  more  clearly.  What  is  it  you  exact  ? Your  right 
I admit.  I have  never  denied  it.” 

“ What  I have  said.  That  you  should  leave  your  wife, 
gmd  make  it  known  to  her  that  you  leave  her  forever.  You 


282 


GUILDEROT. 


will  write  a letter  of  farewell  to  her,  which  I shall  read  and 
send.  It  was  for  her  that  you  insulted  and  forsook  me.  It 
is  her  now  whom  you  must  sacrifice — if  you  are  in  earnest.” 

He  was  silent  a moment;  then  he  walked  to  the  table 
near  on  which  were  paper  and  pens  and  ink,  and  a litter  of 
opened  letters.  “Tell  me  what  to  write,”  he  said  with  the 
same  sound  in  his  voice,  which  was  half  sullen  and  half  im- 
ploring. He  plunged  one  of  the  quills  in  the  ink,  and 
turned  to  her  and  waited. 

“Ho.  Hot  in  that  haste,”  she  said;  and  she  rose  and 
closed  her  writing-table.  “ You  shall  not  say  or  think  in 
the  future  that  I hurried  you  into  an  agitated  and  unmedi- 
tated act.  Years  ago  we  were  much  like  that,  but  such 
madness  is  over.  Your  choice  must  be  deliberate  and  wholly 
voluntary.  It  will  last  out  your  life  and  mine.  So  now,  if 
you  choose  you  can  return  to  this  room  at  this  hour  to-mor- 
row. If  not,  leave  Naples,  and  do  not  attempt  ever  again  to 
see  me  or  to  speak  to  me,  either  alone  or  in  the  world.” 

Before  he  could  reply  or  remonstrate  she  had  touched  a 
hand-bell  which  stood  near  her ; one  of  the  men  of  the  ante- 
chamber answered. 

“Show  my  lord  to  his  carriage,”  she  said  to  the  servant. 

Guilderoy  could  not  resist  such  dismissal.  He  kissed  her 
hand  with  the  slight  salutation  of  an  acquaintance  and  left 
her  presence.  The  servant  ushered  him  with  ceremony 
through  the  house  and  out  by  the  great  gates  of  the  sea 
front.  He  was  scarcely  conscious  of  what  he  did  or  where 
he  went : and  he  found  himself  standing  on  the  beach  be- 
neath the  marble  wall,  with  the  placid  sea  before  him  shin- 
ing under  the  stars,  a few  boats  rocking  in  the  silver  of  its 
surf. 


CHAPTER  XLY. 

1 Unnerved,  beset  with  a thousand  conflicting  emotions, 
divided  between  intense  desire  and  that  honor  which  his 
education  and  his  instincts  made  a second  nature  to  him, 
Guilderoy  left  the  hall  and  went  home  across  the  gardens  to 
the  palace  which  he  had  occupied  half  a mile  away.  The  night 
was  very  brilliant ; the  stars  seemed  strewn  thickly  as  dia- 
mond dust ; all  the  ear-piercing  and  countless  noises  of  the 
Neapolitan  streets  had  ceased.  It  was  an  hour  before  dawn  j 


guilderoy . 


283 


there  was  no  sound  but  that  of  the  murmur  of  the  sea.  He 
walked  through  the  white  intense  moonlight  and  the  dim 
shadows,  now  passing  some  recumbent  figure  lying  stretched 
in  sleep  upon  the  stones,  some  basket  of  malits  whose  tired 
seller  had  fallen  asleep  beside  it  on  a marble  stair,  some 
Madonna’s  lamp  burning  within  a sculptured  shrine.  He 
looked  at  nothing,  neither  outward  to  the  sea  nor  upward  to 
the  stars,  nor  downward  at  the  slumbering  beggars.  His 
eyes  only  saw,  as  it  were,  painted  on  the  radiant  night,  the 
face  of  Beatrice  Soria. 

What  she  had  demanded  of  him  was  a greater  price  than 
if  she  had  asked  of  him  the  sacrifice  of  existence  itself. 

He  was  a man  to  whom  the  curiosity  and  comment  of  the 
world  were  intolerable ; to  whom  the  honor  of  his  name  had 
been  always  sacred  and  kept  intact  through  all  his  follies 
and  excesses;  his  attachment  to  John  Vernon,  lying  dead  in 
his  grave  at  Christslea,  was  sincere,  and  his  sense  of  the 
duty  owing  to  his  memory  was  strong. 

The  hours  passed  uncounted ; he  had  no  sense  either  of 
hunger  or  thirst ; he  was  wholly  possessed  by  the  agitation 
of  his  senses  and  emotions,  and  the  struggle,  which  was  vio- 
lent, between  his  desires  and  his  consciousness  of  what 
honor  a^ked  of  him. 

The  memory  of  her  as  he  had  seen  her  first  on  the  moors  in 
the  pale  autumn  morning  came  over  him  with  a pang  of  wistful 
repentance  and  regret.  The  recollection  of  her  in  the  first 
days  of  her  marriage  to  him  smote  him  with  the  sense  of 
having  sacrificed  some  innocent  and  trustful  animal  on  the 
altars  of  his  own  brief  and  destroying  desires. 

lie  knew  that  to  both  the  woman  whom  he  had  married 
and  the  woman  whom  he  had  loved  he  had  behaved  with  the 
unkindness  which  is  the  inseparable  offspring  of  a purely 
selfish  and  physical  passion.  He  saw  himself  for  the  moment 
as  others  saw  him ; and  he  condemned  himself  as  they  con- 
demned him  in  these  solitary  and  bitter  hours  of  self- 
examination. 

What  Aubrey  had  justly  defined  in  him  as  a feeling  not 
of  affection  but  of  egotism  towards  his  wife,  made  it  terrible 
to  him  to  appear  to  other  men  as  wanting  in  respect  or  in  re- 
gard for  her.  He  was  sensitive  to  the  insolence  of  public 
comment ; and  he  abhorred  the  thought  that  through  him  the 
world  would  talk  of  her.  He  remembered  her  father  with 
contrition  and  self-condemnation  ; he  remembered  his  own 


284 


QUXLDEBOY. 


violent  self-will  in  insisting  on  the  caprice  of  his  momentary 
desires,  and  all  the  wisdom  with  which  John  Vernon  had  en- 
deavored to  dissuade  him  from  his  folly.  He  could  not  pos- 
sibly blame  anyone  except  himself.  He  could  lay  at  no  one 
else’s  door  the  difficulty  and  temptation  in  which  he  was  now 
placed.  He  had  blamed  her  indeed  for  want  of  sympathy 
* and  affection,  but  he  knew  that  he  had  had  little  right  to 
do  so. 

He  passed  the  night  hours  pacing  to  and  fro  beside  the 
sea.  Once  he  bade  a boatman  row  him  out  on  to  the  moonlit 
water,  and  he  watched  from  it  the  receding  shores. 

The  boat  drifted  on  under  the  stars  on  the  open  sea,  the 
rower,  half  asleep,  steering  mechanically  with  his  foot,  and 
ever  and  anon  idly  dipping  his  oars  into  the  waves.  He  was 
stretched  at  full  length,  his  head  resting  on  the  bench,  his 
eyes  watching  afar  off  the  stately  pile  of  the  Soria  Palace 
towering  against  the  moon-bathed  clouds,  whilst  the  fragrance 
of  its  orange  gardens  came  to  him  over  the  waves.  After 
all,  it  seemed  to  him,  his  first  duty  was  to  the  one  who  dwelt 
there. 

His  marriage  had  been  a supreme  wrong  done  to  her.  If 
she  could  find  reparation  or  consolation  in  his  love  now,  he 
thought  that  he  was  bound  in  honor  to  afford  them  to  her; 
at  least  his  wishes  led  him  to  try  and  believe  so.  And  he 
loved  her  more  than  he  had  ever  loved  any  woman  ; her  touch, 
her  voice,  her  regard,  stirred  the  very  depths  of  his  soul  as 
no  other’s  had  ever  done.  Years  of  separation  had  given  to 
his  desires  the  freshness  of  a new  passion,  and  the  keen  jeal- 
ousy with  which  he  had  watched  the  homage  of  others  had 
intensified  it  tenfold.  He  was  in  that  mood  in  which  a man 
feels  that  all  other  things  may  perish  if  his  love  is  left  to 
him  ; the  cry  of  Faust,  “I  give  my  soul  forever  so  that  this 
woman  may  be  mine  ! ” 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  never  really  lived  save  when  he 
was  with  her.  His  senses  were  stimulated,  his  intelligence 
was  aroused,  his  wandering  fancies  were  captured  and  con- 
centrated by  her  as  they  were  by  no  other  woman.  The  very 
indignity  which  he  had  inflicted  on  her,  and  which  she  had 
pardoned,  endeared  her  to  him ; she  had  not  clung  to  him  in 
slavish  humility,  but  she  had  loved  him  and  forgiven  him 
with  a greatness  which  ennobled  her  in  his  sight.  Such 
madness  might  be  passed  with  her;  in  him  it  was  as  living 
still  as  when,  years  before,  he  had  first  watched  the  stars  rise 


&UILLEKOY. 


285 


over  these  waves  and  the  moon  shine  on  the  pale  sculptures 
of  her  palace.  She  believed  that  he  was  incapable  of  suffer- 
ing ; but  he  felt  that  he  drank  its  fullest  cup  to  the  lees.  She 
was  the  only  woman  on  earth  to  him  ; the  world  seemed  to 
hold  no  other.  But  a remorse,  which  was  in  its  way  as 
strong  as  the  desire  of  his  soul,  was  also  at  work  within  him. 
He  knew  that  he  would  act  vilely  and  with  surpassing  dis- 
loyalty if  he  deserted  so  young  a woman  as  his  wife,  and  one 
so  wholly  blameless. 

She  had  been  unable  to  content  him  indeed  ; she  had  failed 
to  correspond  to  some  fanciful  ideal  which  he  had  formed  and 
imagined  for  a few  months  to  be  incorporated  in  her.  She 
was  not  what  he  had  wished  or  what  he  had  cared  for;  but 
that  was  no  fault  of  hers.  She  had  promised  him  nothing 
which  she  had  not  fulfilled,  and  she  had  borne  his  name 
blamelessly  through  all  trials. 

In  what  she  had  said  to  him  on  the  day  that  he  had  left 
Ladysrood  she  had  been  wholly  justified  by  facts  ; and  though 
he  had  so  violently  resented  her  words,  his  conscience  told 
him  that  they  were  wdiolly  deserved ; that  they  had  indeed 
been  more  forbearing  than  many  a woman  in  her  position 
would  have  made  them. 

As  ludicrous  and  commonplace  thoughts  intrude  themselves 
sometimes  on  the  deepest  and  most  tragic  emotions,  there 
recurred  to  his  mind  his  conversation  with  his  sister  on  the 
evening  when  he  had  announced  to  her  his  intended  mar- 
riage ; and  of  how  he  had  replied  to  her  prophecies  of  woe 
with  the  jest  that  no  one  ever  abandoned  his  wife  in  these 
latter  days,  unless  it  were  a workman  who  went  off  with  the 
household  savings  to  the  United  States.  It  had  always 
seemed  to  him  so  easy  to  live  so  that  the  world  need  know 
nothing  of  private  disunion  or  dissension : so  easy  to  conduct 
existence  on  the  smooth  lines  of  outward  courtesy  and  appar- 
ent regard  ; so  easy  to  shut  the  door  politely  in  the  face  of  a 
staring  world  in  such  a manner  that  it  should  imagine  that 
there  was  perfect  felicity  behind  it.  He  had  always  been 
disdainfully  censorious  of  those  who  had  not  the  tact  or  the 
good  taste  requisite  to  preserve  these  externals  of  harmonious 
agreement,  which  are  all  that  the  world  demands.  And  now 
he  himself  was  on  the  brink  of  affording  to  the  world  that 
spectacle  of  disordered  passion  and  of  public  severance  which 
had  always  seemed  to  him  so  coarse  and  so  unwise  ! 

Amidst  all  the  heat  and  confusion  of  his  thoughts  there 


286 


GUILDEROY. 


came  over  him  the  memory  of  John  Vernon’s  pale  calm  feat- 
ures in  the  mask  of  death,  as  he  had  seen  them,  with  the 
summer  sunlight  falling  soft  and  warm  upon  them,  while  the 
little  birds  had  sung  outside  the  casement  underneath  the 
leaves.  The  pang  of  an  immense  remorse,  the  throb  of  a 
great  shame  stirred  in  his  heart.  Egotist  though  he  was, 
given  over  to  pleasure  and  indifferent  to  rebuke,  he  felt 
ashamed  and  guilty  before  the  mute  reproach  of  the  dead 
man’s  memory. 

“ I gave  you  all  I had,”  the  voice  of  the  dead  seemed  to 
say  to  him.  “ I gave  it  against  my  will,  and  I warned  you 
that  you  would  use  it  ill.  What  have  you  done  with  it  ? 
What  will  you  say  to  me  on  that  day  when  you,  too,  come 
before  the  tribunal  of  the  grave?  ” 

He  shuddered  as  he  lay  under  the  golden  December  moon, 
shining  cold  as  steel  down  on  the  steel-blue  seas.  What 
had  become  of  his  honor  ? Where  was  his  good  faith  to  the 
dead  ? To  a living  man  he  might  have  been  untrue,  had  he 
chosen  ; but  to  be  false  to  one  who  could  never  arraign  him, 
never  offend  him,  never  rebuke  him  ! — he  seemed  to  grow  a 
coward  and  a liar  in  his  own  sight.  All  better  things,  all 
higher  truths  that  he  had  ever  believed  in,  awoke  in  his  soul, 
and  bade  him  suffer  what  he  would,  lose  all  he  might,  but  be 
faithful  to  his  word  to  one  who  was  no  more  numbered  with 
the  living.  He  gazed  at  the  faint  white  shore  gleaming  afar 
off  under  the  moonlit  skies. 

“ My  love,  my  love  ! ” he  murmured,  “ I cannot  be  dishon- 
ored even  for  you.  He  trusted  me — — ” 

The  tears  filled  his  eyes,  and  the  shining  seas  and  the 
starry  skies  grew  dim  to  his  sight. 

“ Put  me  ashore,”  he  said  to  the  boatman.  His  resolve 
was  taken. 


CHAPTER  XL VI. 

When*  he  at  last  reached  his  own  residence  and  crossed  the 
court  to  enter  his  own  apartments,  it  was  nearly  but  not  quite 
dawn.  Large  lamps  swinging  from  the  ceiling  dimly  lighted 
the  two  ante-chambers.  In  the  second  of  them  his  body- 
servant  was  lying,  fully  dressed,  face  downwards,  on  one  of 
the  couches,  tired  out  with  his  long  vigil.  Guilderoy,  sunk 
in  his  own  thoughts,  did  not  even  see  the  man,  and  passed 


' " GUILDEEOY , 287 

on  to  the  three  large  rooms  which  divided  the  vestibule  from 
his  bed-chamber. 

It  was  an  old  palace  ; lofty,  spacious,  magnificent,  faded 
and  dull.  Busts  of  dusky  yellow  marble,  weird  bronzes 
stretching  out  gaunt  arms  into  the  darkness,  ivories  brown 
with  age,  worn  brocades  with  goldthreads  gleaming  in  them, 
and  tapestries  with  strange  and  pallid  figures  of  dead  gods, 
were  all  half  revealed  and  half  obscured  in  the  twilight.  As 
he  moved  through  them,  a figure  which  looked  almost  as  pale 
as  the  Adonis  of  the  tapestry  and  was  erect  and  motionless 
like  the  statue  of  the  Wounded  Love,  came  before  his  sight 
»out  of  the  shadows.  It  was  that  of  Gladys. 

He  paused,  doubting  his  senses.  With  her  long  black 
.robes  and  her  pale  features  she  looked  rather  a creature  of 
the  grave  than  of  the  earth,  in  the  faint  and  fluctuating  light 
which  fell  on  her  from  the  swinging  lamps  above. 

Bor  some  moments  neither  of  them  spoke. 

“What  has  happened?”  he  said  at  last  instinctively. 
■“  Why  are  you  here  ? ” 

He  expected  to  hear  of  some  calamity  ; of  Ladysrood  burnt 
down,  or  his  kindred  dead.  She  was  silent.  She  was  deadly 
pale ; there  seemed  nothing  alive  in  her  except  her  intensely 
searching  eyes,  which  gazed  at  him. 

“For  the  love  of  God  do  not  look  at  me  like  that!”  he 
cried  involuntarily.  “What  has  brought  you  from  England? 
Why  do  you  wait  for  me  at  such  an  hour  ?” 

“It  is  the  hour  at  which  you  have  left  the  Duchess  Soria,” 
she  said,  in  a voice  which  was  low  but  harsh. 

His  worn  face  flushed. 

“ That  is  absolutely  untrue  ! I left  her  house  at  eight  this 
evening.” 

She  gave  an  impatient  movement  which  said  without 
words.  ‘ Why  lie  to  me  ? ? 

“ I tell  you  that  I left  her  house  at  eight,”  he  repeated. 
“ You  shall  not  insult  her  in  my  hearing.” 

“But  you  may  insult  me  in  hers  ?” 

“ I never  insult  you.  I speak  of  you  always  wTith  the 
most  unfeigned  respect.  But  if  you  begin  to  track  me,  to  lie 
in  wait  for  me,  to  spy  on  me,  to  catechise  me,  I tell  you 
honestly  that  I shall  respect  you  no  more,  nor  will  I patiently 
endure  such  espionage.” 

All  the  gentler  and  more  remorseful  emotions  towards  her 
With  which  his  breast  had  been  filled  as  he  paced  the  solitary 


288 


GTJILBEnOY. 


shores  and  the  deserted  streets  had  been  destroyed  in  an  in- 
stant by  the  mention  of  the  one  name  dearest  to  him. 

“ Who  has  a right  to  be  near  you  if  not  I ?”  she  asked 
with  a haughty  anger  which  scorched  up  the  tears  that 
mounted  to  her  sight. 

“No  one  disputes  your  right,”  he  answered  with  great  im- 

f>atience.  “ But  between  right  and  welcome  there  are  many 
eagues;  and  the  title  to  come  to  me  unbidden  I would  never 
award  to  any  woman  were  she  ten  thousand  times  over  my 
wife.” 

“ I am  come  to  solicit  nothing  from  you,”  she  said  coldly. 

“ Oh  no ! Only  to  watch  for  me,  to  trace  out  my  actions, 

to  question  me,  to  fetter  me,  to  haunt  me,  to  offend  me  ! ” 

“ Is  it  so  strange  that  I wished  to  see  you,  to  know  some- 
thing of  you  ? For  three  months  you  have  not  written  to 
me,  only  to  your  servant.  I heard  that  you  were  here  ; here 
with  her — the  only  woman  whom  you  have  ever  loved — so 
you  told  me  ! ” 

Her  words  were  broken,  and  her  voice  had  a great  emo- 
tion in  it ; but  that  which  would  have  touched  him  in  his 
mistress  only  angered  him  the  more  intensely  in  his  wife. 

“ I forbid  you  to  bring  her  name  into  this  discussion  ! ” 
he  said  with  more  passion.  “You  choose  to  follow  me,  and 
to  make  me  reproaches ; it  is  the  way  of  women ; they  only 
lose  all  by  it,  but  they  are  never  deterred.  I came  away 
from  you  because  you  asked  me  intolerable  questions  and 
wearied  me  with  useless  scenes.  If  I have  not  loved  you  it 
has  not  been  my  fault.  Love  is  not  to  be  whipped  into 
obedience  like  a straying  child.” 

“ Why  marry  me  ? ” 

“ What  is  the  use  of  saying  that  again  and  again  ? You 
said  it  in  London ; you  said  it  at  Ladysrood.  I deceived 
myself,  and  so  I deceived  you — with  no  thought  or  desire  of 
deceit.  When  a man  tells  a woman  candidly  that  he  mistook 
his  love  for  her,  what  more  is  there  to  say  ? He  should  ask 
her  pardon,  perhaps,  for  the  wrong  he  has  unintentionally 
done  her.  In  that  sense  I ask  yours.” 

She  did  not  reply. 

“It  is  better  you  should  know,”  he  continued  rapidly. 
“You  will  not  care  perhaps.  If  not,  so  best.  I was  about 
to  write  to  you.  I am  true  to  an  allegiance  promised  before 
1 promised  mine  to  you.  I am  aware  the  world  does  not  rec- 
ognize such  unwitnessed  vows,  but  they  are  all  love  cares 


GTJILDEROY. 


289 


for ; they  are  all  that  ever  really  hold  love,  let  men  say  what 
they  will.  I must  tell  you,  since  you  are  here,  the  entire 
truth.  I can  give  you  no  more  of  my  life  ; I can  live  no  longer 
in  a feigned  harmony  which  has  wholly  ceased  to  exist,  if 
ever  it  did  exist — I do  not  think  it  ever  did — between  us  ; 
you  may  hate  me,  and  the  world  may  execrate  me  ; but  so  it 
must  be  henceforth.” 

He  paused  in  strong  emotion  ; he  was  neither  heartless 
nor  ungenerous,  and  he  knew  that  his  words  must  of  ne- 
cessity sound  both.  He  hated  to  give  pain  to  any  living 
creature ; and  though  she  seemed  so  cold  and  still  that  he 
doubted,  as  he  had  always  doubted,  her  feeling  greatly,  yet 
he  knew  that  any  woman  must  suffer  so  addressed,  even  if 
she  only  suffered  in  her  pride. 

He  waited  for  her  to  reply ; but  she  said  nothing.  She 
stood  motionless  with  perfect  tranquillity. 

The  words  were  honest  and  truthful,  but  to  their  hearer 
they  seemed  cruelty  and  brutality  incarnate.  Had  not  her 
pride  restrained  her,  she  could  have  cried  aloud  like  some 
animal  in  torture.  But  she  was  very  proud,  and  whatever 
agony  she  might  suffer  afterwards,  she  had  force  to  hold 
back  any  expression  of  it  now.  Moreover,  a consuming 
jealousy  was  upon  her,  giving  her  temporary  strength ; and 
yet  her  whole  existence  seemed  racing  and  whirling  from 
her,  as  a great  river  courses  in  its  haste  and  storm  towards 
the  bottomless  sea.  She  looked  at  him  where  he  stood  under 
the  falling  light  from  the  lamp,  pale,  agitated,  angered,  and 
she  could  have  thrown  herself  upon  his  breast  and  cried  to 
him,  UI  love  you  ! I love  you  ! Give  me  some  place — the 
least,  the  lowest — but  some  place  in  your  heart ! ” 

But  pride  kept  back  that  yearning  impulse  ; she  stood, 
erect  and  cold,  in  her  black  clothes,  with  the  sombre  light  of 
an  unutterable  reproach  burning  like  a flame  in  her  dark 
blue  eyes. 

u You  are  the  lover  of  the  Duchess  Soria,”  she  said  dog- 
gedly. 

It  was  the  most  fatal  thing  she  could  have  said,  but  she 
was  not  wise  enough  to  know  that.  Guilderoy’s  face  flushed 
hotly  ; he  felt  all  the  impotent  fury  of  a man  forced  to  say 
what  it  seemed  infamous  to  say,  no  matter  how  he  might 
reply. 

“ If  to  adore  her  be  to  be  her  lover,  then  I am  so,”  ha 
said  with  violence.  u In  no  other  sense — now* — as  yet” 


<>90 


GUILDEROY. 


She  heard  the  first  declaration  ; she  gave  no  credence  te 
he  second ; she  thought  it  the  mere  conventional  declara- 
tion with  which  a man  deems  it  necessary  in  honor  to  deny 
his  relations  with  a woman. 

“ I came  to  hear  this  from  your  own  lips,”  she  said  with 
perfect  coldness.  u I have  heard  it.  There  can  be  no  longei 
any  doubt,  I will  go  now.” 

u Go  where  ? ” he  asked  in  vague  uneasiness. 

“ That  cannot  matter  to  you.  Farewell.” 

His  anxiety  deepened,  despite  his  anger  and  his  preoc- 
cupation. Her  manner  seemed  to  him  unnatural.  Its  ser- 
enity was  not  in  keeping  with  the  burning  pain  and  rebuke 
spoken  in  her  eyes. 

“ Why  will  you  make  me  these  scenes  ? ” he  said  wearily. 
“ I was  thinking  of  you  kindly  when  you  lay  in  wait  for  me 
thus.  I cannot  endure  surveillance,  interference,  espionage  ; 
and  when  you  speak  of  the  woman  I love  more  than  all  others 
on  earth  you  madden  me.” 

She  smiled  bitterly. 

u I will  leave  you  to  that  other  woman.  Surely  you  can  ask 
no  more.  Believe  me  I shall  make  neither  complaint  nor  scan- 
dal. I remember  what  my  father  wished.  Your  name  and 
his  are  safe  with  me.” 

“ I will  write  to  you,”  he  said  hurriedly,  embarrassed  and 
distressed.  “All  possible  arrangements  or  consideration 
shall  be  made — all  that  I have  is  yours.  I am  deeply  sen- 
sible of  the  injury  I have  done  to  you  in  making  you  my 
wife  when  you  were  too  young  to  know  my  character  or  your 
own,  or  measure  the  feelings  of  either  of  us  ; but  if  your 
father  sees  now,  as  some  say  the  dead  can  see  the  souls  of 
the  living,  he  will  know  that  I was  entirely  honest  in  all 
that  I promised  then,  both  to  him  and  to  yourself.” 

His  eyes  were  dim  and  his  voice  was  uncertain  as  he  spoke  ; 
a great  emotion  moved  him,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  sha 
felt  nothing  whatever — nothing  but  some  indignant  scorn, 
perhaps  at  most  some  outraged  pride. 

“ She  does  not  really  care ; she  knows  nothing  of  love,” 
he  thought.  It  seemed  to  him  that  any  woman  who  had 
loved  him  would  have  either  poured  out  to  him  all  the  furies 
of  a disappointed  and  deserted  passion,  or  have  fallen  at  his 
feet  weeping  in  agonized  supplication. 

But  she  gave  no  sign  either  of  violence  or  of  wretched- 
ness, 


0U1LDEROY. 


291 


At  her  father’s  name  her  mouth  trembled,  and  he  thought 
for  a moment  that  her  composure  would  desert  her ; but  she 
soon  recovered  it.  Whatever  she  felt  she  betrayed  none 
of  it. 

“ Be  good  enough  to  let  me  pass,”  she  said,  coldly ; and 
mortified,  humbled,  yet  angered  with  a sense  of  injustice 
done  to  him,  as  though  he  were  the  offended,  not  the  of- 
fender, he  drew  back  and  let  her  go,  as  she  desired. 

“ Where  are  you  going  ? ” he  said  with  hesitation.  “You 
cannot  go  like  this,  all  alone,  in  a strange  city.” 

“My  servants  are  waiting.  I will  return  to  England. 
Why  do  you  even  ask  me  ? It  cannot  matter  to  you  ! ;; 

“ It  must  matter.” 

He  was  confused,  agitated,  passionately  angered,  and  yet 
all  the  while  conscious  of  a vague  fear  that,  in  her  strange 
stillness  and  repose  she  would  do  something  rash  and  irre- 
vocable, something  which  would  haunt  him  all  his  life  long 
with  remorse. 

“ Let  me  pass,”  she  said,  with  her  forced  serenity  un- 
broken. “ I have  told  you  I leave  you*  free.  What  more 
can  I say  ? You  need  fear  nothing  for  any  tragedy 
which  might  embroil  you  with  your  world.  I shall  go 
home.” 

But  as  she  went  out  before  him  through  the  bare  dim  rooms, 
her  step  unfaltering  and  her  head  erect,  he  realized  how  im- 
possible it  was  to  let  her  leave  him  thus  unprotected — a 
woman  who  was  his  wife,  who  was  as  young  as  she  and  as 
fair  to  look  upon,  alone  in  the  streets  of  such  a city  as 
Naples  was  at  such  an  hour.” 

“ I must  accompany  you  at  least,”  he  said  as  he  overtook 
her.  “You  cannot  go  out  in  these  streets  alone.  I will  take 
you  wherever  you  will.” 

Then,  and  then  alone,  her  self-control  forsook  her ; she 
turned  upon  him  with  the  rapid  and  violent  action  of  some 
animal  wounded  and  tormented  beyond  its  power  to  bear. 

“ When  my  whole  life  is  destroyed  by  you,  can  you  insult 
me  by  offering  me  mere  formal  external  courtesies  ? Can 
you  think  that  it  would  matter  to  me  if  any  beggar  of  these 
lanes  stabbed  me  and  dragged  my  bodj^  to  the  sea  ? What 
do  you  know  of  love,  of  grief,  of  pain,  or  sacrifice  ? Nothing 
— nothing — nothing — no  more  than  those  marble  gods  that 
stare  there  in  the  dusk.  Let  me  go  ! You  shall  not  stir  one 
step  with  me.  I have  told  you  that  my  servants  wait  below. 


292 


GUlLbEROY. 


There  shall  he  no  tragedy  such  as  you  fear  should  hurt  your 
reputation  as  a man  of  honor  with  the  world.” 

Then  with  the  swiftness  of  that  step  with  which  she  had 
once  gone  careless  and  light-hearted  through  the  moorland 
gorse,  she  went  through  the  shadowy  chambers,  past  the  still 
sleeping  servant,  under  the  great  brazen  lamp  burning  in 
the  entrance,  and  down  the  marble  stairway  of  the  silent 
house. 

He  did  not  follow  her. 

All  the  gentleness  and  self-reproach  with  which  he  had 
thought  of  her  in  the  night  just  passed  died  utterly  out  of 
him  under*  the  sting  of  her  disdainful  and  cutting  words. 
Though  she,  like  the  woman  whom  he  loved,  charged  him 
with  insincerity  and  heartlessness,  he  knew  himself  that  he 
had  neither ; he  knew  that,  whatever  he  appeared  to  both  of 
them,  he  suffered  with  genuine  emotion,  and  with  true  self- 
reproach.  He  had  said  no  word  to  her  which  had  not  cost 
him  more  to  utter  than  it  cost  her  to  hear.  He  had  ideals 
and  dreams  of  what  could  never  now  be  realized,  and  he  had 
the  instinctive  honor  of  a nature  both  proud  and  sensitive, 
even  though  he  had  no  feeling  for  her  of  affection,  she  might 
still  have  kept  him  by  tenderness ; but  her  words  which  had 
struck  him  to  the  quick,  had  hardened  against  her  all  the 
feelings  of  his  soul.  Beatrice  Soria  might  rebuke  and  might 
condemn  him,  but  she  at  the  least  loved  him  with  a passion 
which  forgave  all,  if  it  in  turn  exacted  all. 

Through  the  iron  gratings  of  the  large  unshuttered  win- 
dows of  his  rooms  the  first  white  light  of  day  came  faintly 
through  the  duskier  lamplight,  falling  on  the  pale  figures 
of  the  tapestried  hangings  and  the  yellowed  marbles  of  the 
Caesars  and  the  gods. 

He  threw  open  the  casements  and  let  the  sharp,  clear, 
cold  air  of  earliest  day  pour  past  him  into  the  shadows  of  the 
rooms.  When  the  sun  rose  he  sent  three  lines  to  the  Soria 
Palace  — 

“ I found  her  here.  I told  her  the  truth.  We  are  parted 
forever.  When  may  I come  to  you  ? ” 

They  brought  him  in  answer  three  words  only 
“ When  you  will*? 


GU1LDER0Y . 


293 


CHAPTEE  XLYII. 

A few  evenings  later  Lady  Sunbury  was  in  her  own  house 

Illington  in  the  midst  of  a large  circle  of  guests.  It  was 
two  hours  after  midnight,  her  drawing-rooms  and  ball-room 
were  full ; everyone  was  amused  and  amusing ; she  was  go- 
ing from  one  to  another  with  bland  smiles  and  suitable 
phrases,  her  harassed  thoughts  all  the  while  with  her  elder 
daughter,  who  was  encouraging  the  wrong  suitor,  and  her 
second  son,  who  was  lying  dangerously  wounded  in  India. 

In  the  midst  of  her  occupations  and  pre-occupations,  at 
the  moment  when  the  cotillon  was  at  its  height,  one  of  her 
servants  called  her  away  and  presented  to  her  a letter  which 
had  been  brought  by  a messenger  from  Italy.  She  recog- 
nized in  the  superscription  the  handwriting  of  her  brother’s 
wife,  and  on  the  seal  the  coat-of-arms  of  the  Vernons. 

“ How  exactly  like  her  absurd  extravagance  ! ” she  thought 
with  contempt.  “ How  exactly  like  her  to  send  a servant  all 
the  way  by  express  with  a letter,  just  as  if  we  were  in  the 
days  of  the  Stuarts  or  Tudors  ! What  does  she  suppose  that 
the  postal  service  and  the  electric  wires  exist  for,  I wonder  ? 

Innovations  in  trifles  always  annoyed  her  more  than  any- 
thing else,  and  she  was  so  extremely  irritated  at  this  folly  of 
her  sister-in-law  in  sending  a man-servant  to  carry  a letter 
by  hand  from  the  Continent  to  England,  that  in  her  annoy- 
ance at  the  trivial  eccentricity  she  almost  forgot  her  curiosity 
and  apprehension  as  to  the  possible  contents  of  the  packet. 

She  took  it,  however,  to  her  boudoir,  and  there,  being  alone, 
opened  and  read  it.  The  letter  was  written  by  Gladys  from 
Eome,  and  began  without  prefix  or  preliminary. 

“Ho  not  blame  your  brother  for  anything  that  you  may 
hear  of  him.  The  fault  is  altogether  mine.  I am  not  a 
woman  who  could  possibly  make  him  happy  as  his  wife.  I 
am  cold,  hard,  and  unforgiving.  My  father  even  told  me  so 
more  than  once  before  he  died.  Therefore  blame  me  en- 
tirely, and  not  Lord  Guilderoy,  for  our  ensuing  separation. 
There  need  be  no  publicity  or  scandal  of  any  kind.  I am 
sensible  of  the  many  gifts  I have  received  from  him,  and  I 
shall  not  return  them  with  ingratitude.  But  neither  will  I 
see  him.  nor  speak  with  him,  nor  live  under  the  roof  of  any  of 


294 


GUILTjEROYo 


his  houses.  Except  that  he  cannot  marry  again  whilst  I live, 
he  will  be  as  free  as  he  was  before  we  unhappily  met,  that 
autumn  day  upon  the  moors.  I hope  that  you  will  tell  him 
so  from  me.  I shall  take  none  of  my  jewels,  nor  shall  I touch 
a farthing  of  my  income  from  my  settlements.  What  I have 
inherited  from  my  father  is  quite  enough  for  me  to  live  upon. 
I have  no  children  living,  so  there  need  be  no  question  whah 
ever  of  the  interference  of  lawyers.  I shall  reside  at  the 
cottage  at  Christslea,  so  that  you  can  all  judge  for  yourselves 
that  my  manner  of  life  is  worthy  of  my  father’s  memory. 
But  I beg  that  you  will  none  of  you  seek  for  a moment  to 
attempt  to  change  the  resolution  which  I have  taken,  for  it 
is  unalterable  ; and  interrogation  and  expostulation  would 
be  only  unbearably  painful  to  me.  You  will,  I entreat,  lay 
all  blame  which  may  be  incurred,  upon  me.  The  world  has 
always  considered  me  ill-suited  to  him.  It  will  not  be  aston- 
ished that  a union  so  inharmonious  should  be  ended  by  that 
want  of  sympathy  and  temper  which  it  has  always  attributed 
to  me.  You  have  often  reproached  me  with  doing  nothing 
to  save  your  brother’s  honor.  I now  at  least  do  what  I can. 
You  repeatedly  condemned  me  for  poor-spirited  silence.  Be 
sufficiently  just  not  to  condemn  me  now  for  acting  as  you 
have  frequently  more  than  hinted  to  me  that  I should  do.” 

The  signature  was  Gladys  Vernon. 

When  Hilda  Sunbury  had  read  the  letter  through  to  the 
end,  her  first  impulse  was  to  start  at  once  for  the  south  ; the 
next  moment  she  remembered  that  it  was  impossible  and 
would  be  useless  to  do  so  ; she  could  not  leave  Illington  for 
any  length  of  time  with  her  house  full  without  her  absence 
being  known  ; and  what  had  been  already  done  in  Naples 
was  hopeless  and  irrevocable.  After  an  instant’s  meditation 
she  sent  for  her  eldest  daughter. 

“ I have  had  news  which  must  take  me  to  Balfrons  to- 
night,” she  said  to  her  daughter.  “ You  know  my  uncle  is 
lying  very  ill  there.  I do  not  wish  anyone  to  know  that  I 
am  absent.  I shall  return  the  day  after  to-morrow.  You 
can  say  I am  indisposed  from  cold  and  have  to  keep  my 
room.  Make  no  fuss.  Amuse  everyone.  Be  discreet,  and 
do  as  you  would  do  if  I were  here.  I shall  be  back  in  thirty^ 
six  hours.  Say  nothing  to  your  father.  It  is  not  worth 
while.  He  would  only  ask  innumerable  questions.” 

Then  with  the  utmost  speed  and  quietness  she  left  the 
house,  drove  seven  miles  to  take  the  morning  train  to  the 


GUILDEEOT. 


295 


north,  succeeded  in  reaching  it  on  the  eve  of  its  departure,  and 
hastened  as  fast  as  steam  could  bear  her  across  the  length  of 
England  to  where  the  mighty  keep  of  Balfronsrose  above  its 
oak  woods  and  faced  the  Cheviots.  She  knew  that  Aubrey 
was  there. 

With  the  open  letter  in  her  hand,  she  passed  unannounced 
into  the  library,  where  he  was  seated  alone.  He  was  at 
Balfrons  for  two  days  only.  His  father  was  ill,  and  was  at 
that  age  when  any  slight  illness  may  easily  pass  into  the 
last  ill  of  all.  No  one  was  staying  at  the  Castle  except  the 
Duchess  of  Longleat  and  her  tw^o  younger  children. 

He  rose  in  amazement  and  alarm  as  his  cousin  entered, 
for  it  was  nearly  midnight. 

“ Gladys  ? ” he  said  instinctively,  thrown  off  his  guard. 

Lady  Sunbury  cast  down  the  letter  on  the  table  before 
him. 

She  was  pale  with  passion,  which  she  had  nursed  in  all  its 
heat  and  strength  during  the  lonely  hours  in  which  she  had 
sped  through  the  cold  dark  winter  country  from  Bucking- 
hamshire to  Berwick. 

“ What  did  I say  ? ” she  cried,  her  voice  hoarse  with 
fatigue  and  indignation.  “Did  I not  always  tell  you  that 
you  would  encourage  her  in  her  sentimental,  headstrong, 
insensate  follies  until  she  would  bring  disgrace  upon  us  all  ? ” 

Aubrey  took  up  the  letter,  having  in  that  moment’s  pause 
recovered  his  self-possession. 

“ ‘Disgrace’  is  a very  large  word,  and  not  a common  one 
in  our  families,”  he  said  slowly.  “ Let  me  see  what  she  has 
said  to  warrant  its  use.” 

He  read  the  letter  slowly,  so  slowly  that  Lady  Sunbury’s 
impatience  became  well-nigh  ungovernable.  She  did  not 
know  that  every  word  of  it  went  to  the  innermost  heart  of 
the  reader  with  that  deepest  of  all  sorrows — that  which  is 
powerless  to  aid  the  life  beloved. 

He  held  it  in  his  hand  when  he  had  finished  its  perusal. 

“ What  is  it  you  blame  so  much  ? ” he  asked.  His  cousin, 
seated  opposite  to  him  at  the  great  table  at  which  he  had 
been  writing  when  she  had  entered,  grew  red  with  indigna- 
tion and  suppressed  feeling. 

u What  ? what  ? ” she  repeated.  “ Everything,  surely 
everything,  shows  the  most  wanton  disregard  for  us,  the 
most  theatrical  resolution  to  obtain  publicity,  the  most 
intolerable  selfishness,  the  most  obvious  intent  to  ruin  my 


296 


GUILDER  OY. 


brother  in  the  world’s  esteem  ! And  to  write  it  to  me — to  me! 
You  are  her  confidant  and  confessor ; you  have  always  been 
so  ; why  could  she  not  send  such  a declaration  of  her  pro- 
jects to  you,  if  sent  it  must  be  at  all  ? ” 

“ It  is  natural  that  she  should  address  you — a woman,  and 
her  sister-in-law,”  said  Aubrey,  coldly.  “ But,  pardon  me,  do 
you  suppose  such  a deliberate  resolution  as  this  can  be  ar- 
rived at  by  anyone  so  young  without  some  very  great  pro- 
vocation to  it  ? She  does  not  say  what  it  is ; but  I imagine 
that  both  you  and  I can  guess.” 

Lady  Sunbury’s  conscience  stung  her,  remembering  the 
scene  which  she  had  made  to  Gladys  in  the  King’s  Alley  at 
Ladysrood.  But  she  was  not  a woman  to  acknowledge 
error. 

“ Very  possibly  she  may  have  had  things  which  pain  her,” 
she  said,  slightingly.  “ But  other  women  have  as  much  and 
more  to  pain  them;  and  their  sense  of  duty  and  of  dignity 
serves  to  keep  them  silent.” 

Yes,  they  keep  “silent”  by  leading  a life  of  eternal  dis- 
union, bickering,  and  upbraiding,  as  you  do,  thought  Aubrey, 
as  he  answered  aloud : 

“ I think  you  forget  her  youth ; in  youth  these  wrongs 
seem  to  fill  heaven  and  earth ; as  women  grow  older  they 
grow  used  to  them,  no  doubt,  as  the  camel  grows  to  his  bur- 
den. The  letter  seems  to  me  irreproachable.  She  asks  noth- 
ing ; she  demands  nothing ; she  injures  nothing ; she  sacri- 
fices everything ; and  she  allows  you  to  place  all  the  blame 
on  her  to  the  world.  What  can  anyone  do  more  generous 
than  this  ? I fail  to  understand.” 

“ You  mean  to  say  that  there  is  nothing  to  be  done  ! ” she 
exclaimed. 

“ What  should  be  done  ? ” said  Aubrey,  with  the  only  im- 
patience which  had  escaped  him.  “ If  a woman  decides  to 
leave  her  husband,  and  he  decides  to  live  so  that  she  has  no 
choice  but  to  leave  him,  who  is  to  reverse  that  position  ? 
They  can  reverse  it  themselves,  as  long  as  there  is  no  legal 
separation.” 

“ And  she  is  to  be  allowed  to  live  in  this  insane  manner  in 
solitude  in  her  father’s  cottage  ? ” 

u No  one  can  prevent  her  doing  so  but  Guilderoy,  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  he  has  lost  all  possible  title  to  command  her 
even  if  he  wishes  to  do  so,  while  it  is  most  probable  that  he 
does  not.  There  is  no  disgrace  in  her  limiting  herself  to 


OZTTLDEROr.  297 

her  own  resources  ; there  is  even  a certain  dignity  in  it,  as  I 
consider ! ” 

“ Because  you  are  bewitched  and  infatuated  about  her  ! ” 
said  his  cousin,  with  rude  contempt. 

Aubrey  kept  his  temper  marvellously. 

“ I believe  I am  neither  one  nor  the  other.  I regretted 
her  departure  from  England.  At  your  request  I endeavored 
to  dissuade  her  from  it.  I did  not  succeed.  She  was  un- 
happy, and  when  a woman  is  so  she  is  never  very  wise.  I 
conclude  from  this  letter  that  on  her  arrival  in  Italy  she 
learned  what  did  not  make  her  happier.  The  steps  she  takes 
are  extreme — that  I grant — but  they  only  injure  herself,  and 
there  is  no  one  except  her  husband  who  can  have  any  possi- 
ble power  to  try  and  turn  her  from  them.” 

“He  will  not  stoop  to  solicit  a woman  who  leaves  him.” 

“ Stoop  ! You  speak  as  though  he  were  faultless  and  she 
liad  committed  some  crime  against  him  ! You  must  know 
as  well  as  I do  that  something  much  graver  than  his  usual 
caprices  must  have  moved  her  to  write  such  a letter  and  take 
such  a resolve.  Do  you  suppose  that  a woman  as  young  as 
she  is  voluntarily  severs  herself  from  all  the  pleasures,  graces, 
and  interests  of  life,  unless  life,  as  it  is,  has  become  wholly 
intolerable  to  her  ? ” 

“ And  her  duties,”  asked  Hilda  Sunbury,  with  violence, 
“ do  they  count  for  nothing  ? Is  she  to  be  allowed  to  play 
at  tennis,  with  the  honor  of  my  brother’s  family  as  her 
racquet  ? ” 

“My  dear  Hilda,”  replied  Aubrey  wearily,  “you  have 
always  considered  that  all  creation  exists  only  for  the  honor  of 
your  family.  To  others  creation  may  still  seem  to  have 
some  additional,  though  no  doubt  minor,  objects  in  view. 
However,  even  from  that  point,  I scarcely  concede  that 
you  can  violently  censure  Lady  Guilderoy.  She  offers  you 
all  possible  occasion  for  examination  into  her  life ; she 
simply  announces  her  intention  of  not  living  with  your 
brother  or  in  any  of  his  houses-  If  he  cares,  he  will  seek  to 
change  her  decision ; if  he  does  not  care,  he  will  necessarily 
be  glad  of  it.  Anyhow  there  need  be  no  immediate  scandal ; 
at  any  rate  unless  you  are  pleased  to  make  it.” 

“I!”  exclaimed  his  cousin,  disbelieving  her  senses. 
“ What  do  I most  abhor  if  not  to  have  a single  breath  of  the 
world  breathed  on  me  ? What  have  I not  endured  that 
society  should  r*ever  suspect  what  I have  suffered  ? What 


GUHDEftOt. 


m 

women  have  I not  compelled  myself  to  receive  in  my  own 
homes  in  order  that  the  outrages  inflicted  on  me  should  not 
form  food  for  social  calumnies  and  ridicule  ? Who  in  the 
whole  width  of  English  society  has  been  so  constant  and  so 
resigned  a martyr  as  myself  to  all  the  indignities  which  a 
man  who  does  not  respect  himself  does  not  hesitate  to  inflict 
on  those  whom  he  should  respect  ? And  then  you  presume 
to  say  that  I — I ! — I shall  bring  about  scandal  concerning 
my  brother’s  wife  ! It  is  herself  who  brings  it.  How  can  a 
woman  do  what  she  is  doing  without  bringing  about  her  ears 
a thousand  hornets’  nests  of  curiosity  and  misconstruction  ? 
How  ? Will  you  tell  me  that  ? ” 

“ The  hornets’  nests  will  come,  no  doubt.  They  are 
everywhere,”  said  Aubrey,  with  a sigh  of  impatience.  “ My 
dear  Hilda,  forgive  me  if  I speak  plainly.  Your  own  life 
has  been  a painful  one ; you  have  spent  it  in  acrimony,  re- 
proaches, futile  efforts  to  make  black  white,  and  endless 
quarrels  which  have  never  furthered  your  purpose  one  hair’s 
breadth.  Your  brother’s  wife,  being  unhappy,  chooses  a 
more  drastic  but  a more  dignified  vengeance.  There  would 
be  a third  way  open  to  any  woman  who  had  the  strength, 
the  patience,  and  the  unselfishness  for  it,  and  I wish  that 
she  had  taken  it.  I endeavored  to  persuade  her  to  take  it ; 
but  she  is  young,  and  in  youth  and  in  pain  the  feelings  are 
treacherous  counsellors.  What  more  is  there  to  be  said  ? It 
is  to  your  brother  that  you  must  go.  It  is  useless  to  come 
to  me.  I am  not  the  guardian  of  Lady  Guilderoy,  nor 
am  I my  cousin’s  keeper.  I have  no  more  whatsoever  to  do 
with  this  sad  letter  than  my  dog  Hubert  yonder.  It  is  a 
mistake  on  her  side  ; an  error,  and  a grave  one  ; but  lie*  has 
brought  it  about  by  a much  darker  fault  on  his  own,  and  he 
cannot  complain.  Neither  you  nor  I can  possibly  interfere. 
We  have  no  title  to  do  so.  If  your  brother  acquiesce,  all 
his  relatives  must  acquiesce  also.  Of  that  no  reasonable  doubt 
can  be  urged  for  one  moment.” 

The  great  dog,  hearing  his  name  spoken,  rose  and  ap- 
proached, and  laid  his  head  upon  Aubrey’s  knee  ; his  master 
stroked  him  with  a sigh. 

Passionate  and  injurious  words  rose  to  Lady  Sunbury’s 
lips,  but  she  repressed  them  unuttered  ; she  was  pale  with 
rage  and  offence,  but  she  had  strength  not  to  insult  a man 
whom  the  nation  respected. 

* You  cannot  altogether  disclaim  responsibility  for  her 


GUILDEROY . 


299 


actions/*  slie  said  with  unkind  and  insolent  meaning.  u You 
have  guided  them  for  a long  time.  You  must  pardon  me  if 
I do  not  credit  that  this  letter  and  the  resolutions  contained 
in  it  are  altogether  so  unfamiliar  to  you  as  they  assume  to 
be.  You  were  the  last  person  who  saw  Lady  Guilderoy  in 
England,  and  everyone  is  aware  that  you  have  been  for  a long 
time  her  most  cherished  and  trusted  friend.** 

Aubrey  rose  to  the  full  height  of  his  great  stature,  and 
stood  at  the  end  of  the  great  library-table  as  he  had  often 
stood  at  the  table  of  the  House  of  Commons. 

“ You  are  a woman  and  my  cousin/*  he  said  slowly.  “ Both 
persons  are  privileged  in  you.  But  be  so  good  as  to  remem- 
ber that  I do  not  allow  even  a lady  to  cast  a doubt  on  what  I 
have  said  is  a fact ; and  you  will  kindly  take  care  not  to  hint 
the  insult  which  you  have  just  hinted  outside  the  walls  of 
Balfrons.** 

She  was  imperious,  courageous,  and  full  of  dark  and  insol- 
ent suspicion,  but,  bold  though  her  temper  was,  and  uncon- 
trolled, she  did  not  dare  to  affront  or  offend  him  farther,  and 
she  was  silent. 

“ It  is  late/*  said  Aubrey.  “ Allow  me  to  accompany  you 
to  your  rooms.  You  will  see  Ermyntrude  in  the  morning. 
She  retired  very  early,  for  she  was  fatigued  with  watching 
my  father.  To-night  he  is  quieter  and  asleep.** 

Then  with  all  courtesy  and  ceremony  he  waited  on  her 
across  the  halls  and  corridors  and  galleries  of  the  great  castle, 
and  only  bade  her  good-niglit  at  the  entrance  of  that  suite  of 
rooms  in  the  tapestried  wing  which  were  always  set  aside  as 
hers,  and  which  were  warmed  and  illuminated  for  her  now  as 
though  she  had  been  expected  there  since  noonday.  He  was 
not  conscious  that  he  had  kept  that  letter  from  Gladys  in  his 
hand,  and  she  had  been  too  enraged  and  mortified  to  ask  him 
for  it. 

He  walked  slowly  backward  to  the  library  in  the  midnight 
stillness;  everything  was  hushed  into  greater  quiet  than 
usual  that  the  rest  of  the  old  Marquis  might  not  be  disturbed. 
The  lamps  burned  white  between  the  armored  figures,  the 
drooping  banners,  the  trophies  of  arms,  the  massive  and  lam 
tastic  carvings  of  the  oak-panelled  walls ; his  own  steps  sank 
soundless  on  the  thick  carpeting.  Hubert  followed  him  with 
noiseless  velvet  feet. 

He  paused  before  one  of  the  great  unshuttered  casements, 
with  their  iron  gratings,  which  had  been  there  in  the  Wars 


800 


GUILBEBOT . 


of  the  Roses,  with  the  blazonries  of  the  House  of  Balfro  is 
stained  upon  their  glass.  The  night  without  was  frosty  and 
moonlit.  There  was  snow  on  the  ground,  and  snow  lay  on 
the  roof,  the  turrets,  the  corbels,  the  battlements  of  the 
mighty  Border  castle.  The  keep,  round,  massive,  terrible- 
looking,  like  a fortress  for  giants  in  the  starry  night,  towered 
up  in  front  of  him  upon  the  other  side  of  the  quadrangle. 

He  had  a deep  and  filial  love  for  Balfrons,  and  if  public 
life  had  not  called  on  him  for  absence,  he  would  seldom  have 
left  its  treasure-house  of  books,  and  its  great  forests  filled 
with  wild  cattle  and  red  deer,  and  all  water-birds  and  moor- 
birds  which  ever  haunt  the  reedy  meres  of  the  old  romantic 
Border  lands. 

He  sat  down  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window  and  read  her 
letter  over  again,  word  for  word,  by  the  light  of  the  lamp 
hanging  above  his  head.  There  was  not  a sound  ni  the  house. 
The  clouds  swept  past  the  casement  in  great,  moonlit,  hurry- 
ing armies.  The  deep  bell  of  the  clock-tower  tolled  midnight. 

Every  word  of  the  letter  sank  into  his  heart  like  a knife. 
Every  word  thrilled  with  the  violence,  the  misery,  the  despair 
of  a great  love  which  was  writhing  under  abandonment,  out- 
rage and  misconception.  The  step  she  had  taken  was  unwise  ; 
it  had  a child’s  rashness,  a woman’s  obstinacy,  and  a forsaken 
woman’s  recklessness;  but  there  was  self-negatien  and  an 
austerity  in  it  which  were  in  their  error  very  noble,  and 
touched  chords  in  his  own  nature  which  responded  to  them. 

“ I think  she  would  have  been  happy  with  me,”  he  thought ; 
and  he  sighed  as  he  looked  out  at  the  cold  and  luminous 
night  and  the  great  keep  towering  of  the  skies. 

But  now,  though  he  would  have  laid  down  his  life  to  save 
her,  he  could  not  give  her  one  hour  of  peace.  A furious 
longing  came  over  the  calm,  grave  temper  of  Aubrey  to  cast 
all  other  considerations,  public  and  private,  to  the  winds, 
and  avenge  her  wrongs  upon  his  cousin  with  the  rude,  frank 
championship  of  another  age  and  country  than  their  own. 
But  reflection  told  him  that  such  an  act  could  do  her  only 
harm:  could  only  give  her  name  more  completely  to  the 
world’s  tongues,  and  could  only  possibly  awaken  in  her  hus- 
band’s mind  doubts  which  would  dishonor  her,  and  give  him, 
in  his  own  eyes,  a palliative  for  his  own  offence  against  her. 

“ I have  no  title  to  interfere,”  he  thought,  sadly.  “ I am 
not  her  lover.  Scarcely  even  did  she  at  last  accept  me  as  her 
friend” 


GUILDEROY • 


301 


A thrill  of  what  was  to  him  degrading  and  criminal,  be- 
cause a selfish  pleasure,  passed  through  him  at  the  memory 
of  the  utter  loneliness  to  which  she  had  condemned  herself; 
the  dangers,  the  barrenness  of  the  future  which  she  had 
shaped  for  herself.  But  he  hated  the  cruel  egotism  of  the 
thought ; he  spurned  and  checked  it  as  it  rose  in  him. 

“ How  vile  we  are  at  heart ! ” he  mused,  with  disgust  and 
shame  for  the  momentary  selfish  hope  which  had  intruded 
itself  on  him  in  his  own  despite.  “ How  odiously  vile  ! — ■ 
and  yet  God  knows  if  I could  by  any  personal  sacrifice  pur- 
chase her  happiness,  there  is  none  at  which  I would  hesitate.” 
But  what  sacrifice  could  avail  any  thing  ? Her  happiness 
and  her  wretchedness  lay  in  other  hands  than  his. 


CHAPTER  XL VIII. 

It  was  a winter’s  day  when  the  woman  whom  he  loved 
reached  the  little  cottage  at  Christslea,  having  travelled  with- 
out ceasing,  pausing  only  for  one  night  in  Rome,  the  night 
in  which  she  had  written  the  letter  to  her  sister-in-law. 

The  bay  was  shrouded  in  the  white  fogs  of  a damp  De- 
cember ; the  waves  were  rolling  heavily  with  a deep  roar 
upon  the  beach  ; the  winds  were  sighing  amongst  the  leaf- 
less orchards  and  over  the  bare  scarps  of  the  cliffs. 

She  went  into  the  little  study,  still  crowded  with  her 
father’s  books  and  papers,  and  bolted  the  door,  and  sat  down 
before  the  fire  on  the  lonely  hearth.  All  was  still,  gray,  in- 
expressibly solitary.  The  little  place  was  gay  and  fragrant 
and  pleasant  in  summer  time,  when  the  hedges  were  full  of 
the  songs  of  birds,  and  the  air  full  of  the  scent  of  wallflowers 
and  stocks  blossoming  in  the  homely  garden  ways  ; but  it 
was  intensely  melancholy  in  the  winter  season,  with  the 
silence  of  mist  and  cold  brooding  over  its  solitudes. 

She  shuddered  as  she  looked  at  the  narrow  casements, 
where  the  glass  was  wet  wi  h the  vapors  of  the  morning,  and 
the  gray  veiled  landscape  was  dull  and  blotted  like  a draw- 
ing soaked  in  rain.  It  seemed  an  emblem  of  her  future  ex- 
istence. She  for  the  first  time  realized  the  choice  which  she 
had  made,  the  thing  which  she  had  done. 

Prom  the  time  she  had  left  the  palace  in  Naples  until  sh© 


302 


GUILLEROY. 


arrived  here  she  had  had  no  distinct  sense  of  what  had  hap* 
pened  to  her.  She  had  been  sustained  by  the  violence  and 
the  fever  of  an  intense  passion,  by  the  iron  in  her  soul  of  an 
immense  wrong ; she  had  gathered  a fictitious  strength  from 
the  magnanimity  and  the  dignity  of  her  choice,  and  the  calm- 
ness with  which  she  had  spoken  to  her  husband  had  lasted 
throughout  her  journey  homeward  until  this  moment,  when, 
having  dismissed  the  servants  who  had  accompanied  her  in 
London,  she  had  come  wholly  alone  to  the  little  house  where 
her  father’s  memory  was  her  sole  companion,  and  would  be 
her  sole  consolation  in  the  future.  Then,  when,  not  heeding 
or  replying  to  the  startled  and  agitated  questions  of  the  two 
old  people  left  in  charge  there,  she  ca'me  into  this  chamber 
where  her  father’s  presence  seemed  a living  and  near  thing, 
the  sense  of  all  she  had  given  up,  of  all  she  had  accepted, 
came  to  her  for  the  first  time  in  all  its  nakedness  and  horror. 

She  did  not  regret  what  she  had  done  : she  would  have 
done  it  again  had  she  been  called  on  to  ratify  her  choice  : it 
seemed  to  her  the  only  thing  which  was  left  for  her  to  do  in 
common  honor  and  in  common  courage ; yet  the  pale  and 
ghastly  terror  of  it  faced  her  on  the  threshold  of  this  cham- 
ber like  some  ghastly  shape.  The  want  of  the  one  familiar 
voice  so  often  heard  there,  the  one  unfailing  tenderness  so 
often  proved  there,  overcame  her  with  the  sickliness  of  irre- 
vocable loss.  The  pale  gray  walls,  the  pallid  vellum  volumes, 
the  white  discolored  manuscripts,  the  dull  misty  windows, 
the  cold  hearth,  seemed  to  her  like  so  many  mourners  mourn- 
ing with  her. 

“ Father,  father ! ” she  cried  piteously  to  the  blankness 
which  was  around  her  ; the  silence  alone  echoed  the  cry. 

With  a gesture  of  agonized  supplication,  of  heart-breaking 
prayer,  she  stretched  her  arms  out,  seeking  some  shelter, 
some  embrace,  some  kindly  hand.  The  narrow  walls  of  the 
little  book-room  went  round  and  round  giddily  before  her 
sight ; the  casements  narrowed  into  a single  point  of  light. 
She  fell  face  forward  senseless  upon  the  floor,  and  a great 
darkness  like  night  closed  in  on  her. 

When  she  recovered  consciousness  she  was  lying  on  the 
little  bed  which  had  been  hers  in  childhood,  and  she  saw  the 
withered  brown  face  of  the  old  woman  who  had  kept  house 
there  from  her  earliest  memories  stooping  above  her  in  anxiety 
and  wonder.  She  did  not  speak,  she  did  not  move  : she  lay 
still  and  gazed  at  the  whitewashed  halls,  the  sloping  ceiling 


QUILBEROY. 


303 


{the  narrow  lattice ; and  she  remembered  to  what  a future  she 
(had  condemned  herself.  She  saw  always  before  her  the  face 
of  her  husband  as  she  had  seen  it  in  the  light  and  shadow  of 
the  Italian  moonlight — cold,  pale,  angry,  handsome — his  eyes 
resting  on  her  without  a ray  of  tenderness  in  them,  his  lips 
speaking  passionate  declarations  of  his  loyalty  to  her  rival. 

The  long  swoon,  which  had  frightened  the  people  of  the 
house,  had  been  due  to  cold,  fatigue,  long  fasting  and  great 
emotion.  It  left  no  evil  result  after  it,  and  with  a new  and 
strange  weakness  making  her  limbs  tremble  and  her  brain 
turn,  she  went  down  the  narrow  stair  in  the  morning  light 
to  take  up  that  life  which  was  henceforth  to  be  her  portion. 

There  was  a fire  burning  on  the  study  hearth,  and  the  old 
folks  had  set  some  homely  winter  flowers  in  the  gray  Flemish 
jugs  on  the  centre  table.  The  pale  sunshine  of  a fine  wintry 
day  was  falling  on  the  black  and  white  lines  of  her  father’s 
drawings  on  the  walls.  She  shrank  into  his  large  writing- 
chair  before  the  table,  on  which  his  last  written  sheet,  with 
the  pen  on  it,  lay  as  he  had  left  it  on  his  last  day  of  life,  and 
she  tried  to  realize  this  catastrophe  which  had  befallen  her, 
this  earthquake  which  had  shaken  into  ruins  all  her  summer 
world. 

The  violent  agitations  which  had  followed  on  her  arrival 
in  Naples,  the  hurried  and  scarcely  conscious  journey  home- 
ward, the  suddenness  and  irrevocableness  of  her  own  actions, 
had  given  her  a stunned  and  bewildered  feeling,  like  that  of 
a sleeper  roused  from  his  dreams  to  hear  of  some  misfortune 
rudely  told. 

She  had  written  her  letter  to  her  sister-in-law  with  clear- 
ness, force  and  calmness,  but  with  that  effort  her  nerves  had 
given  way  ; a burning  fever,  a painful  sense  of  exhaustion, 
had  followed  on  it,  and  though  she  had  controlled  all  out- 
ward sign  of  them  until  her  arrival  at  Christslea,  they  left 
her  enfeebled  and  unnerved.  She  was  terrified  by  the 
violence  of  the  passions  which  she  felt,  and  which  had  been 
intensified  by  the  control  over  them  which  she  had  main- 
tained whilst  in  her  husband’s  presence. 

66  Am  I no  better  than  this  ? ” she  thought,  ashamed  and 
appalled  at  the  furies  which  raged  in  her  breast.  She  leaned 
over  the  fire,  shivering  and  hot  by  turns  as  if  with  ague. 
She  did  not  regret  her  choice  ; she  had  no  other  which  would 
have  seemed  to  her  endurable ; but  the  horror  of  her  future 
was  very  ghastly  to  her,  and  as  she  sat  alone  in  the  little 


304 


GUILDER  Or. 


dull  room,  with  the  rime  frost  white  on  the  panes  of  the 
window  and  the  noise  of  the  waves  coming  up  through  the 
silence,  the  memory  of  the  gay  Southern  sunshine  in  which 
she  had  left  him,  the  perfumed  air,  the  sparkling  seas — the 
Seas  of  the  Syrens — was  ceaselessly  before  her,  and  life 
seemed  to  her  a burden  too  intolerable  to  be  borne. 

The  slow  dark  day  wore  on  ; the  clock  ticked  off  its  tedious 
hours ; the  fire  burned  bright  or  burned  dull ; there  was  no 
other  change.  The  old  dog,  who  had  been  at  her  father’s 
feet  in  his  last  moments,  lay  beside  her,  lifting  every  now 
and  then  drowsy  and  tender  eyes  to  her  face.  They  brought 
her  food,  but  she  could  not  take  it.  She  drank  a cup  of 
milk : that  was  all.  She  took  up  her  father’s  Yirgil,  and 
tried  to  read  the  passages  in  which  she  had  been  used  to 
take  most  delight,  but  she  could  make  no  sense  of  the  familiar 
lines  ; the  letters  swam  before  her  sight,  and  she  laid  the 
book  down  with  a sick  despair. 

Would  all  her  life  be  like  this  ? — with  every  interest  of 
heart  and  intellect,  every  innocent  pleasure  of  nature,  every 
harmless  charm  of  existence,  made  void  and  useless  to  her  ? 

u Ah,  how  little  my  dear  father  knew ! ” she  thought,  see- 
ing the  red  embers  of  the  hearth  through  blinding  tears. 
He  had  bade  her  make  her  love  so  great  that  no  other  woman 
could  give  its  equal.  What  use  were  that  ? What  avail  to 
pour  out  gold  at  the  feet  of  him  who  only  sees  in  it  mere 
dross  ? — to  offer  the  universe  to  one  who  is  only  impatient 
of  the  gift  ? 

There  was  nothing  in  her  that  her  husband  cared  for ; 
what  mattered  it  to  him  that  she  was  altogether  his,  body 
and  soul  ? He  would  in  all  likelihood  be  more  grateful  to 
her  for  an  infidelity  which  should  set  him  wholly  free. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

As  she  sat  thus,  till  the  sombre  day  grew  to  the  third  hour 
after  noon,  she  heard  the  latch  of  the  garden  lifted  and  a 
man’s  footsteps  crushed  the  wet  shingle  of  the  pathway  to 
the  porch. 

She  rose,  breathless,  her  heart  beating  to  desperation  with 
the  wildness  of  a sudden  hope. 

She  thought  it  possible  that  Guilderoy  might  have  followed 


GtTlLLEROr.  SOS 

her  there,  might  Have  repented  of  his  choice  might  have  come 
to  offer  her  his  atonement  and  regret. 

A terrible  disappointment  blanched  her  white  face  whiter 
still  as  the  door  opened  and  she  saw  in  the  shadow  of  the  pas- 
sage-way beyond  the  lofty  ^stature  of  Aubrey. 

He  was  the  best  friend  that  she  had  on  earth,  but  had  he 
been  her  cruellest  enemy  the  sight  of  him  could  not  have 
hurt  her  more  than  it  did  then. 

Aubrey  came  up  to  her  and  took  her  hands  in  his  with 
unutterable  tenderness  and  compassion. 

“ My  poor  child — my  poor  darling — how  I grieve  for  you,” 
he  said  with  broken  voice. 

Then  she  knew  that  he  must  have  read  the  letter  which 
she  had  written  in  Rome. 

“ Yes,  Hilda  showed  me  your  letter,”  he  said,  answering 
the  interrogation  of  her  regard.  “It  shocked  me.  I would 
have  given  my  right  hand  that  you  had.not  written  it,  still 
more  that  you  had  not  been  caused  to  write  it.  For  it  is  a 
fatal  error,  Gladys.” 

“I  could  do  no  less,”  she  said  coldly.  The  reaction  of  the 
intense  hope  which  had  for  a moment  leaped  up  in  her  made 
her  feel  sick  and  faint ; she  disengaged  her  hands  from  his 
and  seated  herself  by  the  hearth,  in  the  great  chair,  her  back 
almost  turned  to  him. 

“You  could  have  done  nothing  at  all.  It  would  have  been 
wiser,”  he  said  with  infinite  pity.  “ My  dear,”  he  added  re- 
proachfully, “only  think  what  it  is  that  you  have  done. 
What  will  you  have  made  of  your  life  ? Could  you  not  have 
had  a little  faith  in  my  warnings  ? ” 

She  hardened  her  heart  against  her  truest  friend ; she 
gathered  her  pride  about  her  coldly  and  stiffly ; she  saw  in 
him  only  the  messenger  and  mouthpiece  of  her  husband’s 
family. 

“I  have  done  nothing  that  any  of  Lord  Guilderoy’s  friends 
can  blame,”  she  answered.  “ I have  said  nothing  to  any  one 
of  all  my  acquaintances,  and  I shall  say  nothing  to  any  of 
them.  I only  ask  to  be  left  alone.  I am  sure  that  I am 
living  as  my  father  would  have  wished  me  to  live,  and  I shall 
spend  nothing  but  that  which  he  has  left  me.” 

She  spoke  in  a measured  and  constrained  voice,  as  to  a 
stranger.  She  could  not  forgive  Aubrey  what  she  thought 
his  preference  of  his  cousin’s  cause  and  desertion  of  her  own. 

“ You  have  done  most  unwisely,”  he  said,  with  a sigh.  “ I 

20 


306 


(WILDEROr. 


am  not  defending  my  cousin,  God  forbid ! He  is  beyond  all 
defence,  all  excuse,  and  I should  be  ashamed  to  attempt  to 
give  him  either;  but  you  would  have  had  fuller  sympathy 
from  the  world  at  large  and  greater  comfort,  I think,  in  youi 
own  thoughts,  if  you  had  taken  no  active  part  in  the  destruc- 
tion of  your  ties  to  him.” 

“ I did  nothing  more  than  was  my  right,”  she  said  coldly. 

“ That  I do  not  dispute.  But,  as  I told  you,  a woman’s 
rights  are  her  rashest  counsellors.  After  all,  dear,  what  has. 
one  human  being  of  real  c right  ’ over  any  other’s  life  ? To 
claim  affection  is  idle.  If  it  be  no  longer  ours  we  must  break 
our  hearts  as  we  will.  We  cannot  bridle  the  winds.  We 
must  wait  in  patience  till  they  blow  again  whither  we  would 
have  them.” 

“Then  no  woman  must  ever  listen  to  the  words  of  any 
man ! ” 

“I  did  not  mean  that.  I meant  that  when  we  have  the 
calamity  to  be  loved  no  more  we  must  revile  neither  man  nor 
woman,  we  must  look  within.  Maybe  we  shall  there  see  the 
cause  of  our  woe.” 

She  flushed  hotly  with  anger. 

“ How  have  I been  to  blame  ? It  is  not  my  fault  that  his 
caprice  only  lived  a day.” 

Aubrey  was  silent.  She  understood  that  his  silence  was 
blame. 

“ You  are  unjust  like  all  his  family,”  she  said  passionately. 
“ I have  made  no  scandal,  no  exposure,  no  publicity.  I shall 
make  none.  What  more  can  his  friends  demand  ? He  is  left 
in  peace  with  the  only  woman  whom  he  loves ! ” 

“ My  dearest  Gladys,”  said  Aubrey  wearily,  “ I am  not 
defending  him.  It  has  gone  hard  with  me  not  to  revenge 
you  with  old-fashioned  violence  which  would  have  made  him 
pay  for  your  tears  with  his  body.  You  may  believe  that  not 
to  do  so  has  been  the  greatest  effort  of  my  life.” 

Her  eyes  softened  and  grew  dim. 

“ Is  that  really  true  ? ” 

“ I do  not  say  what  is  not  true,  dear.” 

She  stretched  her  hand  out  to  him.  “ I thank  you  very 
much,”  she  said  in  a broken  voice. 

Aubrey  kissed  her  hands  with  reverence,  and  an  emotion 
which  he  endeavored  to  subdue. 

“ I am  no  lover  or  knight,  my  dear,”  he  said  sadly,  “ and 
the  publicity  of  my  life  makes  indulgence  in  romance  im* 


GUILDEROY. 


307 


possible  to  it ; but  I should  be  less  than  a man  if  I did  not 
feel  for  you  the  deepest,  the  most  indignant  sympathy.  That 
your  wound  should  have  been  dealt  you  by  one  of  my  kin- 
dred makes  me  feel  it  like  a personal  dishonor ” 

He  paused,  and  with  a strong  effort  controlled,  unuttered, 
words  of  greater  tenderness  and  fuller  confession. 

“ But  I will  tell  you  honestly/’  he  added,  after  a pause, 
“ that  I regret  and  blame  your  actions.  They  will  cost  you 
dear,  and  you.  have  not  measured  the  price  of  them.  There 
is  much  that  is  fine  and  even  heroic  in  them,  but  can  you 
honestly  say,  dear,  that  you  believe  your  father,  were  he 
standing  here  now,  would  tell  you  that  you  had  done  well  or 
wisely  ? ” 

She  was  silent.  She  was  too  truthful  to  assert  a belief 
which  she  could  not  entirely  feel. 

“ You  cannot;  for  he  was  a wise  and  good  man.  He  knew 
that  women  are  always  their  own  enemies  when  they  follow 
the  dictates  of  pride,  and  of  pique,  and  of  jealousy.  Pardon 
me  if  these  words  seem  unfeeling  ; they  are  inadequate  to 
express  the  great  wrong  that  you  suffer  from,  but  after  all 
they  are  the  only  ones  which  can  describe  the  impulses  which 
you  have  acted  on  now.” 

“ May  there  not  be  such  things  as  outraged  decency  and 
delicacy,  and  indignant  honor  ?” 

u Yes,  no  doubt;  who  could  deny  them?  But  feeling 
alone  is  the  most  dangerous  of  guides.  It  drowns  us  in  deep 
waters  while  we  think  ourselves  safe  on  d land.  You 
imagined  you  were  sparing  Guildaroy  the  comment  of  the 
world  ; on  the  contrarjq  the  world  blames  him  and  blames 
you  equally,  and  through  you,  where  it  would  only  have  seen 
a mere  passing  difference,  it  will  now  see  a scandalous  and 
unalterable  offence.” 

“ I cannot  help  it  if  his  passions  are  so  made  that  they  do 
not  last  a year  ; if  it  is  what  he  has  not  which  always  seems 
so  much  better  than  what  he  lias.  It  is  not  my  fault  if  he 
married  me  as  he  would  buy  a cocotte , and  tired  of  me  as  he 
would  tire  of  her.  I have  released  him  as  far  as  I can  pos- 
sibly release  him  until  death  takes  me.  I will  not  eat  of  his 
bread,  or  live  under  his  roof.  I will  not  wear  a gown  he 
paid  for,  nor  a ring  he  purchased ; even  my  marriage  ring  1 
threw  down  before  him — he  did  not  even  see  it — what  did  he 
care  ? He  was  only  thinking  of  her ; sighing  for  her  be- 
cause she  had  the  wit  to  assume  indifference  to  him ! ” 


308 


GUILDEROY. 


She  spoke  with  violence  and  with  vehement  scorn;  he  had 
never  seen  her  so  strongly  moved  before,  often  as  he  had  had 
to  soothe  her  indignation  and  persuade  her  into  peace. 

All  that  she  had  endured  in  silence  since  she  had  left 
Naples  broke  out  in  these,  the  first  words  which  she  had  been 
able  to  pour  into  the  ear  of  any  listener. 

He  stroked  her  hair  tenderly  as  he  might  have  touched  the 
hair  of  a suffering  child. 

“ Calm  yourself,  my  dear,”  he  said  gently.  'x  Many  women 
suffer  what  you  suffer  now.  Only  believe  me,  the  remedy 
you  have  chosen  is  one  which  will  harass  and  deepen  your 
wound  and  never  heal  it.  You  have  called  the  world  in  as 
your  physician.  It  is  one  which  kills  and  does  not  cure.” 

“ Perhaps  it  would  be  best  that  I should  kill  myself  ; I 
have  thought  of  it  often.  But  I always  remember  that  my 
father  thought  suicide  a cowardice.  Sometimes  I am  inclined 
to  do  it ; it  would  set  him  free.  Perhaps  he  would  think  of 
me  with  kindliness  if  I were  dead.** 

“ And  are  there  none  who  would  regret  you  more  than 
that  ? ” said  Aubrey  with  a rebuke  in  his  voice  which  he 
could  not  restrain. 

“No;  why  should  they?  If  I am  nothing  to  him  I am 
nothing  to  anyone.” 

She  spoke  wearily,  listlessly,  thinking  only  of  herself. 
Aubrey’s  heart  beat  quickly ; he  said  nothing,  and  she  did 
not  look  at  his  face. 

There  was  long  silence  between  them,  filled  only  by  the 
lulling  noises  of  the  sea. 

“It  is  impossible  that  you  can  remain  here!”  he  said 
abruptly  at  last.  “ You  are  too  young,  twenty  years  too  young. 
You  wish  to  st&y  the  tongues  of  the  world ; what  can  set 
them  in  full  cry  like  such  an  act  as  this  ? ” 

“ They  will  say  I am  cold  and  odd.  They  have  said  9# 
very  often  before.  That  is  the  worst  they  can  say— I hare 
never  heeded  it.” 

“ It  is  not  the  worst ! They  will  attribute  motives  to  you 
of  which  you  do  not  dream.” 

“ What  motives  ? ” 

“ My  dear,  when  a woman  does  not  live  with  her  husband, 
society  is  always  sure  that  she  lives  with  someone  else.  You 
force  me  to  be  brutally  sincere.” 

Her  cheeks  flushed  ; she  raised  her  head  with  hauteur. 

*‘My  life  is  free  to  all  his  family  to  observe.  Ti^ire  is  no 


GUILDEliOY.  309 

concealment  in  it.  It  is  as  plain  to  be  seen  as  the  white  face 
of  that  cliff.” 

“ That  is  the  sublime  madness  of  innocence  ! The  more 
open,  simple,  and  harmless  it  actually  is,  the  more  will  the 
world  be  certain  that  it  conceals  a secret  and  an  intrigue.” 

“That  must  be  as  it  may.  My  own  conscience  is  enough 
for  me.  And  surely  you  forget  ; the  world  knows — it  cannot 
choose  but  know — that  Lord  Guilderoy  finds  his  happiness 
elsewhere.” 

“ And  the  world,  which  is  always  ready  to  excuse  the  man 
and  accuse  the  woman,  will  very  possibly  say  that  it  is  par- 
donable he  should  do  so,  because — who  knows  what  devilry 
the^i  will  not  say  ? Only  of  this  you  may  be  very  sure  : that 
they  will  never  believe  that  a woman  of  your  years  voluntarily 
shuts  herself  in  such  solitude  as  this  without  consolation.” 

“ They  can  believe  what  they  please.  If  they  place  the 
blame  on  me,  not  on  him,  I shall  have  done  what  my  father 
always  bade  me  do — bear  his  faults  for  him.  I shall  receive 
no  one.  It  is  impossible  that  calumny  can  invent  anything, 
unless  they  find  sin  in  the  gulls  of  the  air  and  suspicion  in 
the  rabbits  of  the  moors.” 

“ They  will  find  it  even  in  these,  doubt  not,  rather  than  find 
it  nowhere.” 

“ They  must  do  so  then.” 

“ You  are  cruel  and  perverse.” 

“ I do  not  mean  to  be  either.  But  I will  not  reside  in  any 
one  of  your  cousin’s  houses,  nor  will  I touch  a shilling  of  my 
dower  from  him.  I am  nothing  to  him.  He  is  nothing  to 
me.  1 only  still  keep  his  name  because  I cannot  be  relieved 
of  it  without  publicity,  nor  even  with  publicity,  I believe,  as 
the  laws  of  marriage  stand.” 

“ Ho,  you  could  not.  And  you  would  not  free  yourself  if 
you  could.” 

“ Why  do  you  say  so  ?” 

“Because  you  will  always  care  for  him.  Some  day  you 
will  pardon  him,  some  day  he  will  ask  you  to  do  so,  and  such 
forgiveness  will  be  the  renewal  of  affection.” 

“ Never.” 

“Oh,  my  child  ! how  long  does  a woman’s  1 never’  last  ? 
So  long  as  the  man  whom  she  loves  does  not  kneel  at  her 
feet,  and  no  longer.” 

The  color  deepened  in  her  face. 

“What  you  say  to  mo  is  an  insult.  I have  no  feeling  for 


310 


GUILDEROY. 


the  lover  of  the  Duchess  Soria ; or,  if  I have,  1 pray  Gh4 
night  and  day  to  tear  it  from  my  heart,  for  it  is  dishonor — * 
abasement — ignominy  ! When  I forget  it  or  lorgive  it,  you 
may  tear  my  heart  out  of  my  body  and  throw  it  to  the  hounds 
of  Balfrons ! ” 

iC  Do  not  make  rash  vows,  my  dear,”  s^id  Aubrey  gently. 
" Women  forgive  everything  when  they  really  love.” 

“ No — no — not  that ! ” 

“ Oh,  yee,  and  far  worse  than  tha(  What  use  is  love  if  it 
be  not  one  long  pardon  ? ” 

u Then  it  is  one  long  weakness  ! V) 

(i  Or  one  long  and  inexhaustible  pity — one  long  and  infinite 
strength.” 

There  was  a tone  in  his  voice  *diich  soothed  the  passionate 
unrest  and  indignation  of  her  soul.  It  seemed  to  her  as 
though  she  heard  her  father’s  voice  speaking  by  Aubrey’s 
lips. 

“ You  are  good,”  she  said  wistfully.  “I  wish  you  had 
loved  me  and  I you.” 

The  words  were  as  innocent  as  though  a child  had  spoken 
them,  but  they  tried  tho  forbearance  of  the  hearer  of  them 
with  a cruel  martyrdom. 

He  rose  hastily,  glanced  at  the  dusky  shadows  of  the  de- 
clining day,  and  bade  her  a hurried  farewell. 

u You  will  come  and  see  me  often  ? 99  she  asked  him,  as  she 
held  his  hand  in  hers.  He  looked  away  from  her. 

“ As  often  as  I can,  dear.  You  know  I have  so  little  time 
for  my  own  affairs.  You  shall  always  know  where  I am,  so 
that  you  may  send  to  me  in  a moment  if  you  need.  Adieu. 
Believe  me  your  firmest  friend,  even  though  I am  no  flatterer 
and  do  not  pretend  to  approve  you  in  what  you  now  do.  I 
will  write  often  to  you,  and  you  will  write  to  me.  I hope 
that  you  will  soon  write  to  tell  me  that  you  renounce  this 
cruel  choice  A life.” 

The  calm  and  unimpassioned  words  cost  him  much  in  their 
utterance.  He  longed  to  offer  her  his  life,  his  soul,  his  end- 
less devotion,  to  put  away  all  national  needs  and  duties  from 
him  and  cleave  only  to  her,  if  he  could  comfort  her  or  atone  to 
her  in  any  way ; but  he  resisted  the  temptation  and  left 
her  with  a kind  and  tranquil  farewell.  He  knew  that  her 
heart  v as  not  his,  he  believed  that  it  would  never  be  his  ; he 
scorned  to  try  to  persuade  her  that  indignation  and  revenge 
and  loneliness  and  gratitude  mingled  together  could  ever  make 


&U1LDEB0Y. 


311 


fair  counterfeit  of  love.  The  lesson  might  be  taught  perhaps 
with  time.  A bruised  heart  is  often  like  a wounded  bird  ; it 
falls  to  the  first  hand  which  closes  on  it ; but  he  knew  that 
such  affection  would  never  be  love  in  any  sense,  in  any  shape; 
he  believed  that  all  of  love  which  would  ever  stir  in  her  breast 
was  now  and  would  be  ever  given  to  the  man  who  had  aban- 
doned her. 

Other  men,  more  easily  contented  and  of  less  susceptible 
honor  than  he,  might  have  endeavored  to  supply  the  lost  pas- 
sion, to  replace  the  perished  joys  ; to  persuade  her  that  all 
she  felt  of  bitterness  and  wrong  could  be  most  deeply  and 
surely,  and  most  thoroughly  in  kind,  avenged  by  the  accept- 
ance of  other  sympathies  and  other  affections  than  those 
which  were  denied  her. 

But  Aubrey’s  were  not  the  lips  to  utter  these  persuasions 
or  these  sophisms  : nor  would  he,  well  as  he  loved  her,  have 
cared  ever  to  accept  the  mere  fruits  of  a tortured  jealousy 
and  humiliation,  which  in  their  sufferings  might  have  imag- 
ined themselves  love. 

As  he  left  Christslea  he  looked  across  the  misty  wintry 
wold,  across  to  the  horizon,  where  the  brown  woods,  the  shin- 
ing roofs,  and  the  many  spires  and  towers  of  Ladysrood  were 
faintly  visible  on  the  gray  clouded  edge  of  the  far  moors. 

Its  master  had  left  his  fairest  treasure  unguarded  and  un- 
remembered, thought  Aubrey  ; if  any  bore  it  away  from  kirn* 
who  could  he  blame  but  himself  ? 


CHAPTER  lu 

The  days  and  weeks  and  months  drifted  on  ; the  chilly 
spring,  the  uncertain  summer,  the  stormy  autumn  of  an 
English  year  succeeded  one  another,  and  the  dawn  broke  and 
the  night  fell  over  the  lonely  shore  of  Christslea,  bringing  no 
change  in  the  monotony  of  her  existence. 

Guilderoy  remained  out  of  England.  The  world,  with  its 
usual  discrimination,  pitied  him  and  blamed  Aubrey. 

u Vox  femincB  vox  Dei  ” and  women  without  exception 
took  part  against  Gladys  whenever  they  now  remembered 
her  at  all,  which  was  but  seldom.  They  were  all  of  them 
certain  that  she  could  have  been  entirely  happy  with  her 
husband  had  she  chosen,  since  he  was  always  so  charming; 


312 


QUILDEHOr. 


it  was  her  want  of  amiability  and  of  tact,  they  agreed,  which 
had' caused  his  errors.  No  one  with  such  exquisite  manners 
as  his  could  be  otherwise  than  most  easy  to  live  with.  Ah ! 
why  had  he  thrown  himself  away  on  anyone  so  utterly  un- 
sympathetic ? 

Here  and  there  some  man  who  had  always  admired  her 
beauty,  or  who  had  reasons  of  his  own  for  knowing  that 
Guilderoy  was  not  a faithful  husband  or  a constant  lover, 
lifted  up  his  voice  in  her  defence ; but  such  a one  was  always 
in  a very  narrow  majority,  and  rallied  few  to  his  opinions. 

Hilda  Sunbury,  moreover,  had  pronounced  against  her 
sister-in-law ; that  was  quite  enough  to  condemn  her.  She 
was  not,  indeed,  at  ease  in  her  own  conscience  for  having 
done  so  ; but  that  society  did  not  know.  She  was  a woman 
of  honesty  of  purpose  and  rectitude  of  character.  She  was 
aware  that  she  had  been  the  primary  cause  of  the  final  sepa- 
ration between  Guilderoy  and  his  wife,  and  she  was  con- 
stantly haunted  by  Vernon’s  farewell  words.  But  her  dislike 
to  the  mistress  of  Ladysrood  had  been  stronger  than  her 
candor  or  her  justice;  her  prejudices  for  her  family  were 
stronger  than  her  regard  for  pure  truth.  She  had  the  power 
of  swaying  her  world  in  favor  of  her  brother  to  the  injury  of 
his  wife,  and  she  exercised  the  power,  indifferent  to  the 
claims  of  innocence  and  right. 

“ I always  knew  you  were  an  unsympathetic  woman,  but  I 
never  thought  that  you  were  an  unscrupulous  one  until  now,” 
Aubrey  said  to  her  unsparingly  in  that  London  world  which 
she  was  using  all  the  force  of  her  unimpeachable  position 
and  her  distinguished  virtue  to  turn  against  her  brother’s 
wife. 

“ I say  what  I believe,”  she  replied,  with  chilly  dignity 
and  great  untruth. 

(i  Ask  your  God  to  forgive  you  for  your  thoughts,  then,” 
said  Aubrey. 

He  felt  all  the  disgust  of  a man  who  knows  the  innocence 
of  a woman  before  the  calumny  of  her  by  other  women. 

He  knew  that  Hilda  Sunbury  in  her  soul  was  as  fully 
aware  of  the  purity  of  her  brother’s  wife  as  he  was  ; and  her 
efforts  to  stain  the  whiteness  of  Gladys’s  name,  that  her 
brother’s  faults  might  be  dealt  with  leniently  by  the  world, 
seemed  to  him  as  dark  a crime  as  any  murder;  almost  worse 
than  crime,  because  more  cowardly,  since  secure  from  all 
punishment.  He  himself  was  powerless  to  avenge  it.  Any 


GUILDEROY . 


313 


protest  of  his  made  the  position  of  the  one  whom  he  desired 
to  protect  more  questionable. 

Almost  everyone  believed  that  he  was  her  lover ; he  felt 
that,  though  no  hint  of  it  could  ever  be  given  to  him.  He 
knew  it  by  the  silence  of  others  about  her  to  him  and  before 
him  ; he  knew  it  by  that  instinct  with  which  both  men  and 
women  of  sensitive  temperament  become  conscious  of  the 
opinion  of  their  society  about  them,  even  when  it  is  most 
carefully  hidden  from  them.  He  knew  it  by  the  unwilling- 
ness of  his  sister,  once  so  warmly  her  friend,  to  speak  at  all 
of  Gladys  to  him. 

There  is  a silence  around  us  at  times  upon  the  name  dear- 
est to  us  which  tells  us  without  words  that  others  know  that 
it  is  thus  dear. 

More  than  once  he  was  tempted  to  write  to  or  seek  out 
Guilderoy ; but  he  felt  that  by  him,  as  by  society  at  large, 
his  interference  on  behalf  of  Gladys  would  be  at  once  sus- 
pected and  disregarded,  might  injure  her  greatly,  and  could 
do  her  no  possible  service. 

And  his  wrath  was  so  bitter  against  one  who  could  remain 
absent,  lulled  in  voluptuous  pleasure,  whilst  her  life  was 
beating  itself  as  painfully  against  its  prison  bars  as  any 
bird’s,  that  he  felt  incapable  of  preserving  any  measure  in 
rebuke,  or  even  insult,  if  he  once  allowed  himself  to  address 
his  cousin  either  by  spoken  or  by  written  word.  Any  quar- 
rel between  them  would  become  of  necessity  national  prop- 
erty for  public  comment.  Hank,  like  guilt,  “ hath  pavilions 
but  no  secrecy.” 

Meanwhile,  despite  all,  she  herself  did  not  repent  her 
choice.  She  would  not,  for  all  that  the  world  could  have 
given  her,  have  continued  to  dwell  in  his  house  and  spend 
his  income.  She  would  not  at  any  price  have  borne  the  con- 
stant stare  of  wonder  or  the  semi-smile  of  pity  with  which 
she  would  have  been  met  in  society  by  those  whose  spoken 
words  would  only  have  been  of  homage  or  of  courtesy.  Of 
all  unendurable  positions  hers  would  have  been  the  most 
painful,  had  she  been  living  amongst  his  acquaintances  and 
friends.  Here  at  least  she  had  such  kind  of  tranquillity  as 
solitude  can  afford.  The  fisher  people  on  the  shore  asked 
her  no  questions  ; the  bright  bold  eyes  of  the  orchard  birds 
had  no  cruel  curiosity  in  them  ; and  the  unobtrusive  coun- 
sels written  on  the  pages  of  the  dead  men  of  old  had  no  in- 
quisitiveness or  censure  underlying  them  as  those  of  living 


314 


GUILDEROY, 


speakers  would  have  had.  She  was  glad  of  such  isolation,  as 
all  those  who  suffer  from  humiliation  as  well  as  from  calamity 
are  glad  of  it.  But  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  whole  world 
were  dead,  and  she  alone  living  in  it. 

All  that  stir  and  blaze  and  noise  and  change  and  pomp 
and  pageantry  of  society,  in  which  she  had  dwelt  ever  since 
her  marriage,  were  all  gone  as  though  she  had  never  known 
them.  A silence  like  that  of  a tomb  seemed  always  around 
her.  The  steep  white  cliffs  which  rose  in  a semicircle 
around  Christslea  were  like  the  walls  of  a dungeon.  She 
heard  nothing  from  the  misty  dawns  until  the  starless  nights, 
except  the  rolling  up  of  the  waves  upon  the  sands,  the  cry  of 
the  owls  flitting  at  dusk  amongst  the  boughs,  the  distant 
shouts  of  the  crews  in  the  fishing  cobles  out  at  sea,  or  the 
shrill  weak  voices  of  the  old  man  and  woman  of  the  house 
garrulously  quarrelling  over  their  work  in  garden,  kitchen, 
cellar,  or  apple-house. 

Sometimes  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  years  of  her  life  with 
Guilderoy  had  been  only  the  mere  dream  of  a night.  She 
felt  material  losses,  too,  which  it  humiliated  her  to  acknowl- 
edge. The  homely  and  simple  ways  of  life  at  Christslea 
were  irksome  and  barren  to  her.  All  which  she  had  despised, 
whilst  she  had  enjoyed  them,  of  the  beauty,  the  graces,  and 
the  luxuries  of  existence  were  now  lacking  to  her,  and  she 
missed  them  with  a continual  sense  of  need  of  them  which 
surprised  and  mortified  her.  She  had  believed  herself 
wholly  indifferent  to  those  mere  externals;  those  elegancies 
and  indulgencies  which  in  the  imagined  asceticism  of  her 
renunciation  she  had  counted  as  wholly  unnecessary  to  her. 
She  missed  them  at  every  turn,  at  every  moment;  she 
realized  how  much  they  contributed  to  the  ease  and  grace  if 
not  to  the  happiness.  Her  father  had  voluntarily  resigned 
them  all,  and  no  expression  of  regret  for  them  had  ever  es- 
caped his  lips,  and  she  had  fancied  that  she  could  emulate 
his  philosophy.  But  the  youth  and  the  sex  in  her  had  not 
either  his  resignation  or  his  endurance  ; and  she  suffered 
from  the  mere  physical  and  material  deprivation  of  her  soli- 
tude as  he  had  never  done,  having  attained  the  tranquillity 
of  middle  age  and  of  a scholar’s  stoicism.  She  had  over-esti- 
mated her  own  strength,  and  underrated  the  power  of  mem- 
ory and  desire. 

The  little  lonely  house  which  had  been  the  heaven  of  her 
childhood  was  the  prison  of  her  body  and  her  spirit  now* 


GU1LDEB0Y. 


315 


She  had  force  of  character  enough  to  make  her  adhere  to  her 
decision,  but  she  had  not  coldness  of  nature  enough  to  make 
her  at  peace  in  it.  She  had  known  all  the  fullest  joys  of  the 
passions,  and  all  that  the  world  could  give  of  pleasure  and  of 
admiration.  She  could  not  resign  herself  to  these  empty, 
joyless,  stupid,  eventless  hours,  which  succeeded  each  other 
with  eternal  monotony  as  the  lengths  of  gray  worsted  rolled 
off  the  ball  with  which  the  old  housekeeper  knitted  hose  from 
noon  to  night,  by  the  hearth  in  winter  and  in  the  porch  in 
summer. 

It  was  in  vain  that  she  strove  to  find  those  consolations  in 
study  which  her  father  had  never  failed  to  find ; in  vain  that 
she  opened  the  black-letter  folios  and  the  Latin  volumes,  in 
which  as  a child  she  had  thought  it  her  dearest  privilege  to 
read ; in  vain  that  even  in  her  fathers  own  manuscripts  she 
found  nothing  of  wisdom,  although  their  precepts  of  patience 
were  as  true  as  those  of  Publius  Syrius.  In  vain  did  she 
seek  those  calm  and  golden  counsels ; they  fell  cold  as  icy 
water  on  the  heat  and  pain  of  her  restless  suffering.  When 
she  looked  off  from  the  written  or  the  printed  words  she  saw 
the  face  of  her  rival,  and  she  heard  the  voice  of  her  husband 
saying  always,  “ She  is  the  only  woman  whom  I have  ever 
loved.  God  help  me  ! ” 

Often  she  pushed  the  books  and  papers  aside,  and  went 
out  in  all  weathers,  when  the  white  rain  was  driving  in  fury 
over  the  moors,  and  when  the  waves  were  rising  in  a wall  of 
foam  to  break  in  thunder  on  the  beach. 

Nothing  hurt  her.  She  returned  home  often  drenched  to 
the  skin,  but  she  took  no  harm.  Great  pain,  like  great  hap- 
piness, often  bestows  an  almost  more  than  mortal  immunity 
from  all  bodily  ailments.  “And  I am  always  well/5  she 
sometimes  thought,  almost  in  anger  with  nature  for  its  too 
abundant  gifts  to  her  of  health  and  strength. 

“ He  will  think  I do  not  care/5  she  said  to  herself,  bitterly, 
“ because  I do  not  die  ! ” 

She  knew  that,  with  a man’s  hasty  and  superficial  judg- 
ment, he  was  very  likely  to  think  so  if  he  thought  of  her 
at  all. 

From  the  summit  of  the  moor  which  rose  behind  the  house 
she  could  see  Ladysrood  in  the  far  distance.  On  the  rare  days 
of  sunshine  the  gilded  vanes  and  the  zinc  roofs  glittered  in 
distant  points  of  light  above  the  woods.  The  great  house 
was  left  to  that  silence  and  darkness  which  had  been  so  often 

n 


GUILDEROY . 


316 

its  portion  in  other  years.  Once  or  twice  some  of  the  old 
servants  came  to  Christslea  and  begged  to  see  her,  for  she 
was  beloved  by  the  household ; but  she  did  not  encourage 
them  to  return.  She  had  sent  for  her  dogs,  and  for  some  of 
her  books  from  there ; that  was  all.  She  would  not  even 
have  any  of  her  clothes.  With  an  exaggeration  of  feeling, 
which  even  to  Aubrey  seemed  morbid  and  overstrained,  she 
stripped  herself  of  everything  which  had  become  hers  by  her 
union  with  Guilderov,  and  wore  the  plainest  and  the  cheap- 
est clothes  that  she  could  find.  But  the  beautiful  and  sym- 
metrical lines  of  her  form  gave  their  own  nobility  to  those 
humble  stuffs ; and  in  her  rough  serge,  white  or  black,  she 
had  no  less  distinction  than  she  had  had  in  her  pearl-sown 
velvet  train  at  a state  ball. 

The  insincerities,  the  conventionalities,  and  the  feigned 
friendships  of  society  had  always  been  painful  and  oppressive 
to  her,  even  when  she  had  been  comparatively  happy  amongst 
them.  In  her  present  circumstances  they  would  have  been 
an  intolerable  torture.  She  had  her  father’s  sensitive  horror 
of  compassion  and  of  comment,  and  if  alone  and  wretched  at 
Christslea  she  was  at  the  least  unmolested.  Her  retirement 
had  been  a nine  days’  wonder  to  her  acquaintances ; in  a 
short  time  other  mysteries,  other  scandals,  other  interests 
took  its  place  ; she  was  not  there,  others  were.  Society,  with 
the  indifference  which  follows  its  curiosity  as  surely  as  night 
follows  day,  ceased  to  speak  of  her,  and  almost  forgot  that 
she  existed. 

She  had  been  left  unopposed  to  abide  by  the  choice  she  had 
made;  and  of  her  husband  she  heard  nothing.  He  had  passed 
out  of  her  existence  as  utterly  as  though  he  lay  in  his  grave 
like  her  father. 

“ If  he  were  dead  they  would  tell  me,”  she  thought ; if  he 
were  dead  they  would  remember,  for  a day  at  least,  that  she 
was  his  wife. 

Unconsciously  to  herself,  her  selection  of  Christslea  amongst 
other  reasons,  had  been  actuated  by  the  sense  that  thereat  least 
she  would  be  sure  to  hear  if  any  accident  or  illness  befell  him. 
She  could  not  bring  herself  to  ask  for  tidings  of  him  even  of 
Aubrey  : but  she  knew  that  the  lord  of  Ladysrood  could  have 
no  great  ill  happen  to  him  without  such  at  once  becoming  the 
common  talk  of  the  whole  country  side.  Day  and  night  she 
thought  of  him  as  she  had  last  seen  and  heard  him,  passion- 
ately declaring  to  her  his  preference  of  her  rival  and  hi* 


aminEiior. 


sit 

allegiance  to  her.  Yet  even  in  that  moment  he  had  seemed 
to  her  stronger,  manlier,  more  worthy,  than  he  had  seemed  to 
her  before  in  the  incessant  duplicities  and  the  half-hearted 
intrigues  of  his  other  and  less  open  infidelities.  At  least 
there  was  on  his  lips  no  lie,  and  in  his  acts  no  subterfuge. 

Even  in  the  agony  of  the  jealousy  and  the  indignity  which 
consumed  her,  she  reached  some  faint  perception  of  what  her 
father  had  meant  when  he  had  bade  her  attain  a love  which 
could  see  as  God  saw,  and  pardon  as  men  hope  that  their  God 
pardons  them.  But  it  was  only  in  brief,  far  separated, 
intervals,  that  such  perception  came  to  her;  for  the  most  part 
she  was  devoured  by  those  burning  tortures  of  jealous  imagina- 
tions which  make  every  moment  of  existence  almost  insup- 
portable to  those  they  torment. 

She  recovered  her  bodily  strength  quickly  ; she  had  too 
perfect  health  for  it  to  be  easily  overcome  by  any  suffering  of 
the  mind  or  of  the  senses  ; the  vigorous  and  abounding  life 
which  filled  her  veins  became  a cruel  mockery  of  the  weari- 
ness and  barrenness  of  her  empty  days  and  her  starved  affec- 
tions. When  she  had  thought  of  Ohristslea  as  a haven  of 
rest  in  which  she  could  let  her  sick  soul  lie  hidden  in  peace, 
she  had  remembered  it  as  it  had  been  with  her  father’s  pres- 
ence filling  it  as  with  the  benign  and  cheerful  light  of  spirit- 
ual sunshine.  She  had  forgotten  that  without  him  it  could 
be  only  a lonely  and  dreary  cottage  like  any  other ; a bald, 
poor,  empty  life,  lived  out  face  to  face  with  eternal  losses  and 
eternal  regrets. 

What  had  been  left  her  through  her  father  was  a trifle 
indeed;  no  more  than  one  of  the  head  servants  of  Ladysrood 
was  paid  a year ; but  it  was  enough  for  such  few  wants  as 
her  life  here  comprised,  and  the  rental  of  the  cottage  she  paid 
into  the  hands  of  the  steward  every  three  months. 

“My  lord  does  not  permit  me  to  receive  it,”  said  the 
steward,  in  infinite  perplexity  and  distress. 

“But  I insist  that  you  shall  take  it,”  she  replied,  “Pay  it 
into  the  poor-box  of  Ladysrood  parish  church  if  you  can  do 
nothing  else.” 

And  it  was  paid  to  the  poor  accordingly.  She  would  not 
owe  to  him  one  square  inch  of  the  soil  in  which  the  stocks  and 
the  sweet-briar  grew.  Everything  that  was  not  the  gift  of 
her  father,  or  of  Aubrey  and  his  sister  she  had  left  behind 
her;  all  her  costly  wardrobes,  her  furs,  her  laces,  her  fans, 
her  pictures,  her  jewels  of  all  sorts,  she  left  in  his  houses 


318  GVILLEUOT. 

where  they  were,  locked  up  in  their  chests  and  cabinets  amd 
cases,  and  the  keys  were  deposited  with  his  steward. 

tc  You  have  acted  as  though  you  were  guilty,  and  not  he,” 
Aubrey  said  to  her  again  and  again,  remonstrating  with 
what  seemed  to  him  exaggerated  feeling. 

“ I could  not  have  borne  my  life  if  I had  kept  any  single 
thing  of  his,”  she  answered,  with  an  energy  which  was 
almost  violence.  “ Everything  he  ever  gave  me  is  at  Ladys- 
rood,  from  my  bridal  pearls  down  to  the  last  gift  he  bought 
for  me.” 

“ I do  not  deny  that  there  is  nobility  and  renunciation  in 
your  withdrawal  into  this  obscurity  and  beggary,”  replied 
Aubrey,  “ but  it  is  a mistake.  It  has  made  a thing  which 
the  world  need  never  have  known  become  inevitably  the 
world’s  talk.  It  may  sound  priggish,  pretentious,  or  unfeeh 
ing  perhaps,  my  dear,  if  I say  so,  but  I have  always  held 
that  people  of  our  order  have  no  right  to  gratify  their  own 
private  vengeance,  or  even  set  themselves  free  from  painful 
obligation,  if  by  so  doing  they  bring  the  name  they  repre- 
sent upon  the  common  tongues  of  the  crowd.  This  is  the 
sense  of  the  old  noblesse  oblige . We  do  not  belong  only  to 
ourselves.  We  are  a part  of  the  honor  of  our  nation.  When 
we  do  anything  on  the  spur  of  personal  passion  or  personal 
injury,  which  brings  those  whose  name  we  bear  into  disre. 
pute,  we  are  faithless  to  our  traditions  and  our  trusts.” 

She  sighed  heavily  and  the  tears  rolled  off  her  lashes 
down  her  cheeks.  She  knew  that  he  was  right ; no  appeal 
to  dignity  and  honor  could  leave  untouched  the  inmost 
chords  of  the  heart  of  John  Vernon’s  daughter. 

“ I will  never  do  anything  to  lower  his  name  myself,”  she 
said,  with  emotion.  “ Never,  let  me  suffer  what  I may.” 

“ That  I am  sure  of,”  replied  Aubrey;  “but  without 
thought  you  have  done  what  must  inevitably  draw  the  com- 
ment and  the  censure  of  the  world  upon  you  both.” 

“Not  I.  It  was  not  my  fault,  though  I have  taken  all 
blame  for  it.  He  had  left  me  openly  for  her ; he  had  re- 
solved to  do  so  before  I set  foot  in  Naples.” 

“ It  need  never  have  been  known  to  the  world  in  general 
if  you  had  continued  to  be  the  mistress  of  his  houses,  and 
with  time  you  might  have  regained  his  affections.” 

A hot  blush  of  deepest  anger  scorched  up  the  tears  upoa 
her  cheeks. 


GTJILDEUOY.  319 

u I could  not  live  like  that ; I would  not  exist  a day  in 
such  hypocrisy  and  degradation.” 

“ Why  will  you  talk  of  death,  my  dear  ? You  will  out- 
live me  and  Guilderoy  by  many  years.  You  are  hardly  more 
than  a child  still.” 

“ And  do  not  children  die  ? It  is  true  death  never  takes 
those  who  wish  for  it ; and  I am  always  well — cruelly  well — 
absurdly  well ! ” 

“That  is  ungrateful  to  Fate,  my  dear.  Would  you  be 
happier  if  you  were  lying  on  a sick  bed,  paralyzed  with 
bodily  pains  torturing  you,  as  well  as  mental  ? ” 

u It  would  be  a less  harsh  contrast.  Oh,  yes  ! I know  that 
I am  thankless,  ungracious — wicked,  I dare  say;  but  when 
I feel  such  perfect  health  in  me,  such  untiring  strength, 
I wonder  what  are  the  use  of  them,  why  they  stay  with  me, 
why  they  could  not  make  my  little  children  strong  enough 
too,  so  that  they  might  have  lived.  His  sister  always  says  it 
was  my  fault  that  they  died.  I do  not  think  it  was.” 

“Yes;  I wish  your  children  had  lived.  You  would  not 
have  severed  your  life  from  his  then.” 

“ Oh,  yes,  I should.  I should  have  done  just  the  same  ; 
only  I should  have  had  them  with  me.  He  would  not  have 
taken  them  away  from  me.  I heard  him  say  once  that  a man 
was  a brute  who  could  take  her  children  from  any  woman,  at 
any  age,  whatever  the  law  might  allow  to  him  ! ” 

Aubrey  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

“ My  dear,  when  you  can  recognize  qualities  and  feelings 
in  him  like  this  why  did  you  not  have  more  patience  with  him  ? 
Human  nature  cannot  give  unalloyed  excellence,  and  human 
affections  should  not  expect  it.  In  what  we  love  we  are  sure 
to  find  grave  faults,  and  faults  which  often  are  of  the  kind 
which  we  of  all  others  most  disparage;  but  we  must  accept 
them  just  as  we  would  accept  blindness  or  lameness,  or  any 
physical  accident  in  the  person  we  loved.” 

“ That  depends  on  the  character  of  the  faults.” 

“ Does  it  not  rather  depend  on  our  own  character  ? I ad- 
mit that  what  is  vile  or  utterly  false  and  feeble  will  kill  affec- 
tion, because  it  destroys  the  very  roots  in  which  it  is  planted. 
But  the  infidelities  of  the  passions  and  the  waywardness  of 
the  instincts  are  not  sins  so  dark  as  to  be  unpardonable  ; they 
are,  indeed,  faults  almost  inseparable  from  manhood.” 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully. 

“ You  would  be  faithful  to  any  woman  you  loved,  I thinly* 


32  0 


OUILDEROY. 


“ There  is  no  question  of  myself/’  said  Aubrey  impatiently. 
“ I have  had  no  time  for  the  soft  follies  of  life,  and  my  mis- 
tress is  England,  who  is  a very  exacting  one.  The  question, 
under  consideration  now,  is  of  my  cousin.  His  offences 
against  you  are  very  grave ; but  they  are  of  a kind  which  you 
must  have  learned  enough  in  these  years  to  know  are  insepa- 
rable from  such  a temperament  as  his,  and  which  I think  every 
woman  should  force  herself  to  overlook.” 

“ If  she  felt  herself  in  the  least  loved  by  him  or  necessary 
to  him,  yes,”  she  answered,  with  force  and  emotion.  “ All 
the  question  lies  there.  If  he  had  ever  loved  me  I might  be- 
lieve that  he  might  care  for  me  more  or  less  again.  But  I 
knew — I knew  almost  at  once — that  he  never  did.  As  far  as 
he  can  love  at  all  he  loves  her.  I am  nothing  to  him  but  a 
person  who  is  in  the  way ; who  prevents  him  from  marry- 
ing her;  who  encumbers  his  life  and  draws  down  unpleasant 
comments  on  him  from  the  world.  You  cannot  alter  that. 
There  is  nothing  to  touch  or  to  appeal  to  in  it.” 

“I  think  that  you  mistake — that  you  exaggerate.  Look 
in  your  mirror,  and  see  if  you  are  a woman  to  whom  a man 
so  susceptible  to  female  charms  as  he  is,  can  ever  be  wholly 
indifferent.” 

She  smiled  sadly,  with  that  premature  knowledge  of  the 
world  which  had  so  embittered  her  life  with  its  disillusions. 

u If  I were  a stranger  ora  mere  acquaintance  I should  have 
charm  for  him  perhaps.  Surely,  my  friend,  you  must  under- 
stand that,  being  what  I am  to  him,  I have  none.” 

He  looked  at  her  again ; they  were  walking  by  the  edge  of 
the  cliff  behind  the  house  in  one  of  the  rare  hours  in  which 
he  permitted  himself  to  visit  her.  It  was  a rough,  rude  day, 
with  boisterous  winds  and  a high  sea  tumbling  black  and 
frothy  far  down  below  them.  The  mists  hung  heavily  over 
the  inland  landscape,  and  all  the  northern  horizon,  where  the 
woods  of  Ladysrood  were,  was  hidden  by  a white  thick  fog. 
But  on  the  table-land  of  the  cliffs  the  breeze  was  blowing 
strongly,  and  it  gave  warmth  to  her  cheeks  and  brilliancy  to 
her  eyes,  and  blew  some  of  the  short  waves  of  her  hair  in  dis- 
order upon  her  forehead.  The  wind,  and  the  cold,  and  the 
air  from  the  sea,  lent  her  a vividness  of  coloring  and  of  ex- 
pression which  for  the  moment  banished  the  gloom  and  sad- 
ness which  were  now  habitual  on  her  face. 

“ If  he  could  see  her  now,”  thought  Aubrey,  “ surely  he 
would  come  back  to  her.” 


GUILLEROY. 


321 


He  turned  his  own  eyes  from  her  and  gazed  out  over  the 
stormy  sea,  afraid  of  the  emotions  into  which  he  might  be 
hurried. 

His  position  grew  daily  more  and  more  difficult  as  sole 
counsellor  and  friend  of  the  deserted  wife  of  his  own  cousin  ; 
more  and  more  painful  to  himself  and  invidious  before  others. 
Though  passion  had  had  little  place  in  his  life,  his  nature 
was  far  from  passionless,  and  he  realized  that  the  time  might 
come  when  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  longer  to  preserve 
this  attitude  of  calm,  paternal  affection  towards  her. 

With  all  the  unconsciousness  of  a woman  whose  thoughts 
and  feelings  are  centered  elsewhere,  she  unwittingly  tempted 
him  and  tortured  him  a hundred  times  an  hour.  The  very 
pleasure  with  which  she  welcomed  him ; the  very  sense  she 
often  expressed  to  him  that  he  was  her  one  consolation  and 
protection,  the  very  instinct  of  confidence  in  wdiich  she 
turned  to  and  leaned  on  him  in  her  loneliness,  appealed  more 
than  any  other  thing  could  have  done  to  a man  of  his  wide 
and  magnanimous  temperament.  But  they  also  tried  his 
self-control  more  cruelly  than  any  other  things,  and  often 
made  him  dread  that  his  voluntarily  accepted  office  would 
be  one  beyond  his  force. 

All  the  public  obligations  and  national  interests  with 
which  his  life  was  filled,  although  they  gave  him  that  hold 
on  duty  and  on  honor  which  it  would  have  been  a crime  in 
his  eyes  to  relax,  his  position  before  the  country  being  the 
conspicuous  one  which  it  was,  they  yet  could  not  still  in  him 
either  the  rebellion  of  chained  passions  or  the  natural  yearn- 
ings of  the  heart. 

He  was  a man  of  higher  principle  and  stronger  force  of  self- 
denial  than  most ; but  he  was  also  a man  of  warmer  feeling 
than  most,  and  his  love  had  never  been  weakened  by  being 
divided  and  frittered  away  in  such  innumerable  amours  as 
had  swayed  in  their  turn  the  fancies  of  Guilderoy.  All 
the  grave  and  absorbing  claims  upon  his  life  from  his  party 
and  his  country  could  not  prevent  his  unspoken  attachment 
to  his  cousin’s  wife  growing  daily  and  hourly  in  influence  on 
him.  But  he  had  strength  to  keep  it  untold,  for  he  felt  that 
any  expression  of  it  would  destroy  the  serenity  of  trust  with 
which  she  looked  to  him  in  all  things,  and  would  alarm  her, 
dismay  her,  and  leave  her  utterly  alone. 

He  was  her  only  friend ; for  all  others  whom  she  knew  had 
fallen  from  her.  Her  life  was  dreary  and  dangerous  as  it 

21 


322 


GUILDEROY. 


was.  With  none  to  whom  she  could  show  her  aching  heart, 
it  would  become  to  her,  he  knew  a solitude  beyond  the 
strength  of  any  woman  so  young  to  endure.  She  herself  had 
that  oblivion  of  possible  calumny  and  of  the  imputation  of 
low  motives  which  is  at  once  the  strength  and  the  feebleness 
of  noble  natures,  and  leaves  them  exposed  to  the  false  con- 
structions of  those  who,  unheeded  by  them,  observe  them 
with  malevolence  and  coarseness ; such  malevolence  and  such 
coarseness  as  are  always  the  foundations  of  the  superficial 
judgments  of  society.  She  did  not  think  for  a moment  of  any 
possible  misconstruction  of  that  kindly  and  honest  affection 
which  Aubrey  had  shown  her  ever  since  he  had  first  met  her 
in  the  little  Watteau  cabinet  at  Guilderoy  House  the  day 
after  her  first  Drawing-room.  He  had  been  always  there  to 
serve  her  in  any  difficulty,  to  counsel  her  in  any  distress  ; it 
was  natural  that  he  should  come  to  her  now  in  her  solitude. 

It  seemed  to  her  strange  that  he  came  so  little ; it  seemed 
even  unkind  and  unjust.  She  accused  him  in  her  thoughts 
of  leaning  to  his  cousin’s  side,  of  being  so  swayed  by  family 
considerations  of  pride  and  sympathy  of  kindred  that  he 
palliated  and  excused  hi:  cousin’s  conduct  to  an  extent  which 
was  injustice  to  herself.  Woman-like,  she  required  in  her 
friend  unlimited  approval  and  undivided  sentiment;  she 
wanted  to  hear  him  tell  her  that  she  had  done  wholly  right, 
was  wholly  to  be  pitied  and  esteemed.  The  slightest  reserva- 
tion in  sympathy  struck  on  her  aching  heart  as  with  the  cold 
severity  of  censure. 

It  made  him  afraid  for  her  sake  to  assume  any  prominence 
in  her  affairs  or  to  take  that  part  on  her  behalf  with  his 
cousin  which  it  would  have  been  his  natural  impulse  to  take. 
Neither  Guilderoy  nor  the  world  would  ever  have  credited 
him  with  the  unselfish  feelings  which  would  have  been  his 
only  motive  power.  H saw  no  way  in  which  he  could  assist 
without  more  greatly  injuring  her.  He  knew,  too,  that  it 
was  likely  enough  they  would  associate  his  own  name  with 
the  cause  of  her  voluntary  retirement ; and  he  was  conscious 
that  every  step  he  took,  and  every  word  he  spoke  in  her  pro- 
tection or  defence,  would  only  create  more  strongly  the  im- 
pression that  he  in  some  way  or  another  controlled  her 
destinies. 

Nor  did  he  disguise  from  her  that  all  his  family  blamed 
her ; even  his  sister  blamed  her.  They  were  intolerant  of  a 
publicity  and  eccentricity  which  they  could  not  conceal  from 


GUILDEROY. 


323 


*oeiefy,  and  of  which  with  more  or  less  undisguised  inquisi- 
tiveness the  world  around  them  wearied  them  incessantly  for 
the  explanation.  They  felt  all  the  impatience  of  a proud 
and  sensitive  race  at  the  needless  wonder  and  conjecture 
which  were  aroused  by  her  retirement  to  her  father’s  cottage. 
It  had  caused  a public  scandal  where  the  world  need  have 
known  nothing  of  the  differences  between  herself  and  her 
hasband. 

True,  she  herself  knew  that  Guilderoy  had  left  never  to 
return  to  her,  and  that  such  total  separation  from  her  had 
been  the  price  put  by  her  rival  on  her  reacceptance  of  his 
vows  ; but  they  did  not  know  this,  and  had  they  known  it, 
would  have  thought  it  a mere  delirium  on  his  part  which 
would  pass  away  with  time  and  with  indulgence.  They 
would  have  censured  him  strongly,  but  they  would  not  have 
deemed  her  justified  by  his  conduct  in  taking  such  a course 
as  gave  her  name  to  the  whole  world  to  tear  in  pieces  in  the 
excitement  of  its  curiosity  and  baffled  interrogation.  The 
view  which  Hilda  Sunbury  took  of  her  action  was  in  the 
main  the  view  of  all  those  powerful  families  with  which 
Guilderoy  was  connected,  whether  closely  or  distantly,  by 
blood  or  alliance.  They  defended  him  because  he  belonged 
to  them  ; and  the^  visited  her  with  their  displeasure  because 
they  thought,  as  his  sister  did,  that  she  had  been  grossly  at 
fault  throughout,  that  she  had  never  known  how  to  obtain 
any  influence  over  him,  and  that,  having  confirmed  his  faults 
by  over-leniency  to  them  in  the  first  years  of  their  marriage, 
she  had  now  injured  him  by  sev  rity  and  severance  when 
both  were  ill-time d and  misu  sers  ood. 

Though  often  when  she  was  °lone  the  conscience  of  Hilda 
Sunbury  smote  her,  rAmembering  the  last  words  which  she 
had  heard  John  Yernon  speak  to  her,  yet  in  society  she  did 
not  hesitate  to  exculpate  her  b other  at  his  wife’s  cost.  She 
did  not  scruple  to  hint,  with  many  adroit  phrases,  at  incom- 
patibility of  temper,  want  of  sympathy,  coldness  of  feeling, 
which  excused  if  they  did  not  justify,  Guilderoy’s  indiffer- 
ence. 

“ I say  nothing ; I blame  no  one,”  she  replied  continually 
to  her  questioners  ; but  there  was  a tone  in  the  words  which 
implied  a more  injurious  censure  than  any  direct  accusation 
would  have  done. 

And  when  Aubrey,  angered  and  in  earnest,  told  something 
of  the  truth,  and  took  up  the  defence  of  his  cousin’s  wife. 


324 


GU1LDER0Y. 


society  listened  to  him  with  apparent  deference,  because  be 
was  a great  person  in  more  ways  than  one  and  a leader  of 
opinion,  both  social  and  political ; but,  in  his  absence,  smiled 
and  said  that  he  had  always  been  her  friend,  always  been 
conspicuously  attendant  on  her  from  the  earliest  days  of  hei: 
appearance  in  the  world.  Without  the  voices  of  the  women 
of  his  House  raised  on  her  behalf,  he  could  do  but  little  in 
her  service ; and  they,  at  their  friendliest,  thought  of  her  as 
the  Duchess  of  Longleat  did,  who  said  one  day  to  him : — 

“ If  she  would  come  and  stay  with  me,  if  she  would  hold 
her  own  at  Ladysrood,  if  she  would  lead  any  natural  life  so 
that  the  world  need  not  talk,  I would  support  her  in  every 
way.  But  as  long  as  she  buries  herself  in  this  ridiculous 
isolation,  as  long  as  she  virtually  blames  herself  by  her  ac- 
ceptance of  an  utterly  invidious  position,  I can  do  nothing 
for  her  even  if  I wished.  You  say  that  Guilderoy  leaves 
her;  it  may  be  so;  but  to  all  appearance  it  is  she  who  leaves 
him.  You  say  that  she  has  voluntarily  given  up  her  place 
in  his  life  and  all  her  rights;  I do  not  doubt  you,  but  there 
is  certainly  every  appearance  that  it  is  he  who  has  refused 
them  to  her  for  some  just  cause ; I say  just,  because,  were  it 
unjust,  she  would  most  certainly  protest.  I have  always 
been  attached  to  her ; first  because  she  pleased  you,  and 
then  because  she  pleased  me  myself ; but  she  has  placed  her- 
self in  an  absurdly  false  position,  even  accepting  your  ac- 
count of  the  causes  which  have  led  to  it,  and  I do  not  see 
what  anyone  can  possibly  do  to  sustain  her  in  it.” 

u I thought  you  more  generous  and  less  conventional,” 
said  Aubrey,  angered  deeply,  u and  I think  that  when  I give 
you  my  word  that  her  conduct  has  not  only  been  blameless 
but  admirable,  you  might  trust  me  enough  to  believe  in  my 
assurance.” 

“ My  dear,  I do  not  doubt  that  you  give  it  in  perfect  good 
faith,”  said  his  sister.  a Who  could  doubt  your  good  faith 
who  knows  you  ? But  you  have  always  been  infatuated 
about  her — pardon  me  the  word — and  I confess  that  I think 
your  chivalry  is  doing  her,  in  her  present  position,  infinitely 
more  harm  than  good.  If  she  will  come  and  stay  with  me  I 
will  receive  her.  What  more  can  I say  ? I have  always 
been  greatly  her  friend.  But  so  long  as  she  condemns  her- 
self in  society’s  opinion  by  living  alone  in  a little  cottage 
where  she  is  only  visible  to  you,  no  one  can  be  of  any  solid 
service  to  her.  You  say  that  Evelyn  is  living  openly  with 


GUILDEROY. 


325 


the  Duchess  Boria.  It  may  be  so.  But  the  world  does  not 
believe  it,  because  the  Duchess  Soria  is  a woman  wise  enough 
always  to  please  and  pamper  the  world ; and  even  if  it  be 
ever  generally  known,  every  one  will  declare  that  Lady 
Guilderoy  could  have  only  one  or  two  courses  open  to  her — . 
either  to  carry  her  case  to  the  tribunals,  which  is  what  vul- 
gar women  do,  or  else  to  go  on  her  usual  routine  as  if  she  saw 
nothing  and  heard  nothing,  which  is  what  women  who  are 
gentlewomen  do  all  their  lives  long.” 

“ It  is  what  she  is  doing.” 

“No;  what  she  is  doing  is  a romantic,  headstrong,  idiotic 
thing,  with  which  you  have  great  sympathy,  but  with  which 
no  one  else  living  will  ever  have  the  slightest  patience.  She 
is  drawing  the  whole  world’s  attention  down  upon  her,  and 
no  woman  can  ever  do  that  without  being  condemned  by  it. 
When  the  season  comes,  and  she  is  not  in  her  house  in  town, 
not  in  her  place  at  Court,  not  in  her  position  in  society,  not 
in  her  home  of  Ladysrood,  and  everyone  knows  that  she  is 
'living  alone  in  the  cottage  her  father  died  in,  what  do  you 
suppose  that  society  in  general  will  say  ? ” 

“ If  it  can  ever  say  the  truth  by  any  miracle,  it  will  say 
that  she  is  so  living  because  she  is  too  sensitive  and  too 
proud  to  accept  the  maintenance  of  a man  who  is  unfaithful 
to  her  without  secrecy  or  excuse.” 

“No  ; the  world  will  say  nothing  of  the  sort,  for  it  does 
not  believe  in  miracles.  It  will  take  the  side  which  is  popu- 
lar ; it  always  takes  the  side  which  is  popular,  and  you  know 
it  does;  it  will  exonerate  Guilderoy,  because  it  has  never 
liked  her;  and,  being  essentially  vulgar,  which  all  society  is 
in  our  day,  it  will  utterly  refuse  to  credit  that  any  woman 
voluntarily  surrenders  all  the  material  pleasures  of  a great 
income  and  a great  position.  When  all  our  maidens  are 
brought  up  only  to  think  life  worth  living  if  they  can  sell 
themselves  for  those,  who  will  be  likely  to  hear  with  patience 
that  Gladys  alone  of  her  sex  despises  them  ? You  know, 
as  well  as  I do,  that  though  you  proclaimed  it  in  West- 
minster Hall  with  sound  of  trumpets,  you  would  not  find  any 
living  creature  to  believe  you.” 

“ I supposed  that  you  would  believe  me,”  said  Aubrey, 
with  great  anger  and  some  emotion. 

Ermyntrude  Longieat  looked  at  him  with  tenderness  and 
anxiety. 

" I have  not  said  that  I do  not,  my  dearest.  But  I know 


326 


^uiLDunot. 


her  intimately,  and  I know  that  her  education  has  given  her 
that  unworldliness  and  unwisdom  which  always  appear  either 
a crime  or  a lunacy  to  the  world  at  large.  I believe  her  mo- 
tives to  he  what  you  say ; but  I think  the  act  they  have  re- 
sulted in  is  deplorable.  It  must  make  the  breach  between 
her  and  Guilderoy  irrevocable.  You  seem  to  me  to  remem- 
ber that  too  little.  You  forget  that  after  all  we  are  his  rel- 
atives, not  hers  ; and  in  my  opinion  her  first  obligation  was 
to  him,  not  to  her  own  pride.  You  would  see  this  as  I sea 
it  if  your  feelings  were  not  biased  by  strong  personal  inter- 
est in  her  which  blinds  you  to  common  facts.  Forgive  me, 
dear,  if  I have  said  too  much.” 

“ It  is  precisely  because  we  are  his  relatives,  not  hers, 
that  common  justice  and  common  honor  call  on  us  to  defend 
her  against  him,”  said  Aubrey,  passing  over  her  latter  words. 
“ Guilderoy  requires  neither  pity  nor  support ; he  does  what 
he  pleases ; he  would  always  do  what  he  pleased  if  the  whole 
world  were  burning.  He  leaves  his  wife  much  as  he  would 
any  cocotte.  He  offers  a different  price,  it  is  true.  He  has 
told  his  lawyers  to  give  her  half  his  income.  But  the  feeling 
which  governs  him  is  the  same  as  if  he  were  paying  off  a 
woman  he  wanted  no  more.  He  deems  himself  quitte  par 
la  bourse” 

“ And  she  refuses  ? ” 

“ She  refuses.  She  will  live  on  the  little  her  father  left 
her.  I confess  I am  amazed  that  such  choice  in  so  young  a 
woman  does  not  move  you  to  admiration.” 

“ I cannot  admire  what  is  making  the  whole  of  society 
talk  ill  of  a person  who  s related  to  me.” 

“ You  speak  as  if  he  were  blameless.” 

“No;  but  if  every  woman  in  our  world  made  such  an 
esclandre  as  she,  society  would  be  at  an  end.” 

“ She  has  made  none.  She  has  simply  withdrawn  herself 
to  the  life  that  she  led  before  marriage.” 

“ And  pray,  what  is  that  but  a public  separation  ? ” 

“ It  is  a separation  certainly,  but  not  a public  one.  It 
would  be  utterly  ignoble  if,  because  we  are  closely  connected 
with  him,  we  upheld  him  against  a wholly  innocent  woman. 
She  may  not  have  acted  judiciously,  but  she  has  most  cer- 
tainly acted  as  only  a wholly  innocent  woman  would  act ; 
and  she  is  as  entirely  sacrificed  to  him  as  if  he  had  killed  her 
in  the  flesh,  as  he  has  in  the  spirit.” 

His  sister  listened  to  him  with  sorrow  and  apprehension. 


GTJILDEBOY.  327 

cc  I hc^e  to  heaven  you  will  not  be  sacrificed  to  her  in 
turn!”  she  thought,  but  she  forbore  to  say  it. 

Aubrey  was  disappointed  and  angered  at  her  want  of  sym- 
pathy, and  took  his  leave  of  her,  failing  for  the  first  time  in 
their  lives  to  influence  her  by  his  opinions  and  his  desires. 

Knowing  the  world  profoundly  as  he  did,  he  divined  all 
that  the  world  was  saying  of  Gladys,  not  in  his  hearing  in- 
deed, nor  in  that  of  any  member  of  his  family,  but  never- 
theless saying  unsparingly,  inevitably,  with  all  its  inexhausti- 
ble powers  of  exaggeration  and  invention.  Who  beside  him- 
self and  the  few  who  knew  her  intimately  would  believe  in 
the  story  as  she  told  it,  in  the  motives  as  she  gave  them  ? 

When  her  position  was  a target  for  the  arrows  of  slander, 
how  could  she  escape  them  ? Who  would  believe  in  the  pride 
and  indignation  of  a character,  still  so  childlike  in  its  im- 
pulses and  so  unworldly  in  its  estimates  that  it  could  avenge 
its  wrongs  by  stripping  itself  of  every  material  advantage 
and  every  pleasure  and  pomp  of  life  ? 

Her  choice  was  one  of  those  things  which  the  world  will  till 
the  day  of  judgment  utterly  refuse  to  credit,  because,  break- 
ing all  its  canons  and  ignoring  all  its  estimates,  they  afford 
to  it  no  kind  of  common  ground  on  which  their  motives  can 
be  judged. 

Aubrey  knew  that  ; and  he  knew  that  it  would  be  as  likely 
a task  to  persuade  geese  hissing  on  a common  of  the  beauty 
of  a sunrise  as  to  induce  the  mass  of  society  to  give  credence 
to  the  reasons  which  had  led  her  to  return  to  the  house  at 
Christslea. 

It  was  an  exaggerated  sentiment,  and  when  some  idea  of 
what  she  had  done  was  bruited  about  in  society  it  was  called 
morbid  and  mad  by  the  few  who  did  not  go  still  further  and 
say  that  she  had  been  forced  to  do  it  by  her  husband  on  the 
discovery  of  her  attachment  to  his  cousin.  It  was  an  unwise 
act ; unwise  with  that  mingling  of  sublimity  and  folly  which 
characterizes  most  acts  of  any  strong  feeling.  She  seemed 
by  it  to  give  color  and  ground  to  the  conjectures  raised 
against  her ; it  was  an  error  which  none  but  a very  young 
and  very  proud  woman  would  have  made. 

The  money  which  her  father  had  inherited,  and  which  had 
come  in  due  course  to  her,  Guilderoy  had  immediately  secured 
to  her  in  such  a manner  that  it  was  her  own  as  absolutely  as 
if  she  had  never  married.  Under  her  marriage  settlements 
ker  father  had  been  her  only  trustee,  and  his  sudden  death 


328 


GUILDER  OT. 


had  made  her  sole  mistress  of  her  actions.  Yernon  had  neve* 
felt  the  least  anxiety  as  to  her  safety  in  her  husband’s  hand* 
with  regard  to  all  material  welfare.  Guilderoy  was  at  all 
times  not  only  generous  but  scrupulous  in  the  observance  of 
all  obligations  of  that  kind,  and  had  never  had  the  slightest 
disorder  in  his  personal  affairs.  What  he  had  once  promised 
in  the  little  study  at  Christslea  on  this  point  he  had  thoroughly 
and  blamelessly  fulfilled.  She  was,  therefore,  so  placed  now 
that  no  one  except  himself  could  have  any  legal  title  to  in- 
terfere in  her  actions,  and  he  did  not  seek  to  interfere. 

It  angered  him  deeply,  it  oppressed  and  humiliated  him, 
to  know  that  his  wife  was  living  on  her  own  resources  in  a 
little  cottage  ten  miles  off  his  own  country  house.  He  was 
well  aware  of  how  the  whole  world  of  their  acquaintances 
would  speak  of  so  strange  a thing,  and  of  how  many  and  how 
strange  would  be  the  constructions  placed  upon  it.  But  he 
did  not  endeavor  to  prevent  it.  He  felt  that  he  had  wronged 
her  too  much  to  have  any  moral  right  to  dictate  to  her.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  only  a cur  could  exercise  the  power  given 
him  by  the  law,  when  he  had  voluntarily  declined  the  power 
given  him  by  the  affections.  To  attempt  to  dictate  to  his 
wife  when  he  had  abandoned  her  would  have  appeared  to  him 
the  very  basest  depth  of  low  breeding. 

Her  choice  embarrassed  and  pained  him  ; it  made  him  feel 
forsworn  in  all  the  promises  which  he  had  given  to  provide 
for  her  material  welfare ; it  rendered  the  memory  of  John 
Yernon  doubly  reproachful  to  him.  He  knew  that  it  must 
emphasize  and  darken  his  own  acts  in  the  sight  of  his  rela- 
tives and  his  society  in  general.  To  a man  like  him,  who 
was  always  careful  to  atone  for  moral  unkindness  to  women 
by  great  care  for  their  material  welfare,  and  who  looked  on 
them  as  beautiful  and  delicate  animals  which  needed  luxury 
and  shelter  as  racers  did,  it  was  intensely  distressing  to 
think  that  the  woman  he  had  made  the  bearer  of  his  came, 
should  be  living  in  a manner  which  to  him  seemed  scarce^ 
above  penury.  His  pride  was  hurt  by  it ; both  his  pride  of 
place  and  that  higher  kind  of  pride  which  goes  with  all  the 
sentiments  of  a gentleman.  He  never  dreamed  that  the 
world  would  blame  her,  as  it  did  do,  instead  of  himself,  and 
he  felt  that  he  must  appear  in  its  sight  a brute,  who  not  only 
wronged  but  defrauded  his  wife.  He  was  veiy  far  from 
imagining  Miat  the  capriciousness  of  society  would  transfer 
all  its  blame  from  him  to  her.  Knowing  the  world  aL  2i© 


GTTTLT)EBOr. 


329 


did,  such  inversion  of  it  never  occurred  to  him  as  possible. 

But  Gladys  had  never  had  the  favor  of  her  world.  All 
her  courtesies,  her  generosities,  her  many  thoughtful  and 
tender-hearted  acts  had  failed  to  atone  for  the  unconscious 
hauteur  of  her  manner  and  the  tacit  rebuke  which  her 
silrnco  was  to  the  amusements  around  her.  She  had  had  at 
all  times  as  her  enemies  the  many  women  who  had  loved  and 
had  lost  Guilderoy,  and  their  voices  in  the  earliest  days  of 
her  debut  had  set  the  current  of  feeling  againsf  her. 

Rumor  excused  his  weaknesses  and  distorted  her  failings. 
The  Duchess  Soria  was  beloved  and  followed  by  the  great 
world.  It  had  never  condemned,  it  would  always  be  very 
slow  to  condemn  her.  It  would  unquestionably  hesitate  to 
see  anything  harmful  in  any  of  her  friendships;  and  it  would 
as  certainly  refuse  to  believe  that  any  woman  of  years  so 
youthful  as  those  of  Gladys  would  voluntarily  and  innocently 
retire  into  the  poverty  of  a rural  and  obscure  life. 

The  world  has  its  own  reasons  for  believing  and  for  disbeliev- 
ing ; the  facts  of  any  case  do  not  enter  into  these,  nor  in  any 
way  affect  them.  There  are  those  who  can  do  no  wrong  in 
its  sight,  and  these  have  a charter  of  infallibility ; there 
are  others  who  can  do  nothing  to  its  taste,  and  these  are  con- 
demned even  before  they  act. 

Then  not  a few  also  were  envious  of  what  was  considered 
her  accaparement  of  such  a man  as  Aubrey.  His  great  posi- 
tion and  reputation  made  him  the  desire  and  the  despair  of 
many:  and  when  it  was  seen  how  much  time  he  could  find 
to  give  to  his  cousin’s  young  wife,  though  for  no  other  dal- 
liances of  the  sort  had  he  leisure,  there  had  never  been  want- 
ing those  who  were  ready  to  suggest  that  his  attentions  to 
Lady  Guilderoy  had  as  their  ultimate  object  something 
much  less  innocent  than  the  mere  pleasantness  of  family 
regard. 

The  proud  and  the  delicate  disdain  the  favor  of  the  world, 
but  they  pay  heavily  for  their  disdain  ! The  favor  of  the 
world  makes  us  walk  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  street,  gives 
us  a south  aspect  to  our  house  of  life,  sweeps  the  dust  and 
the  mud  from  the  paths  we  tread,  and  when  we  set  sail  from 
any  port  sends  us  favoring  winds  and  smiling  seas.  She  had 
never  had  that  pliability  and  popularity  which  gives  a woman 
in  a difficult  .position  the  support  of  a thousand  friends  who 
make  common  cause  with  her.  That  rare  high-breeding  and 
that  delicate  hauteur  which  had  marked  her  actions  and  her 


330 


GUILD  EROT. 


manner  in  the  world  had  made  her  many  enemies.  There 
were  few  other  women  in  European  society  who  would  not 
be  gratified  to  think  that  proud  young  head  was  humbled. 
He  could  hear,  as  though  he  were  present  at  them,  the  mil- 
lion and  one  different  conversations  in  which  the  fact  of  her 
separation  from  her  husband  would  be  discussed,  accounted 
* for,  embroidered  on,  censured,  and  ridiculed,  all  by  turns. 

No  one  wrote  to  her  or  came  to  her  except  her  one  friend. 

The  world  will  always  let  any  one  fall  out  of  its  favor  who 
chooses  to  do  so.  She  had  made  none  of  those  intimacies 
with  women  which  give  a woman  sympathy  and  support. 
She  had  been  disdainful  of  the  society  of  her  own  sex  ; to  her 
mind,  used  to  communion  with  such  intelligences  as  her 
father’s  and  Aubrey’s  feminine  conversation  and  confidences 
seemed  trivial  and  frivolous.  Men  who  had  admired  her 
despite  her  coldness,  and  would  gladly  have  atoned  to  her 
for  her  husband’s  neglect  had  she  given  them  the  slightest  sign 
of  permission,  were  afraid  to  seek  her  out  in  her  solitude, 
because  of  the  generally  credited  report  that  Aubrey  was 
primarily  responsible  for  her  selection  of  it.  He  was  not  a 
man  with  whom  other  men  cared  to  meddle.  The  very  cold- 
ness and  indifference  to  women  of  his  life  hitherto  made  it 
generally  supposed  that  his  dedication  of  himself  to  his 
cousin’s  wife  argued  some  deep  mutual  attraction  which  would 
not  brook  any  interference. 

It  was  altogether  in  vain  that  he  in  real  truth  saw  her 
seldom,  was  careful  to  do  nothing  which  could  give  grounds 
for  calumny,  and  made  his  visits  to  her  of  brief  duration. 
The  world  only  saw  in  such  scrupulous  care  the  secrecy  and 
the  consciousness  of  a concealed  intrigue  which  his  public 
career  made  it  necessary  to  conduct  with  the  most  delicate' 
observance  of  appearances.  “It  is  nothing  new;  he  was 
always  in  love  with  her,”  said  men  and  women  both  ; and  it 
seemed  to  them  all  as  clear  as  daylight  that  it  was  the  origin 
of  Guilderoy’s  abandonment  of  her.  He  had  discovered  what 
he  did  not  choose  to  condone,  no  doubt,  and  so  had  exiled 
her  to  her  father  s house  in  preference  to  seeking  any  more 
public  remedy.  He  and  Aubrey  were  near  relatives.  Their 
families  were  proud.  Of  course  the  matter  had  been  arranged 
thus  for  the  sake  of  peace  and  of  the  avoidance  of  the 
country’s  disapprobation ; the  attitude  of  Lady  Sunbury  and 
her  ominous  silence  made  them  certain  that  this  wa£  tb$ 


GUILDEROY.  331 

truth  of  the  whole  position.  They  blamed  Aubrey  more  than 
they  blamed  Guilderoy. 

The  latter  had  always  been  frankly  a man  of  pleasure,  un 
homme  leger ; he  had  never  assumed  any  serious  attitude 
before  the  nation.  But  Aubrey  was  a politician  of  distinc- 
tion and  of  immense  influence  : that  he  should  cause  any 
scandal  of  the  sort  seemed  an  offence  against  the  country 
itself ; a kind  of  immorality  which  was  almost  a treachery 
to  it.  “ And  his  cousin’s  wife,  too  ! ” they  cried  ; “ and  a 
woman  so  young ! ” All  the  great  ladies  who  had  had 
histories  in  their  own  lives,  and  all  the  fashionable  femmes 
tarees  who  keep  their  footing  with  difficulty  in  society,  were 
so  shocked  that  they  could  not  bring  themselves  to  speak  of 
it.  And  a Scotch  waiting-woman  who  had  taken  service 
with  a Scotch  marchionness  of  very  strict  religious  opinions 
sighed  and  hinted  that  she  had  left  Lady  Guildero}r’s  service 
because  even  at  that  time  Lord  Aubrey  had  been  more 
intimate  in  his  cousin’s  house  than  her  principles  had  per- 
mitted her  to  countenance. 

u I am  a poor  woman  who  work  for  my  bread,  my  Lady,” 
said  the  good  creature,  “and  I have  five  small  children 
dependent  on  my  earnings  ; but  let  me  suffer  what  I might, 
I could  never  consent  to  prosper  by  taking  the  wages  of 
sin  ! ” 

“ Your  feelings  and  your  scruples  do  you  very  great  honor,’ 
said  her  employer  who  was  of  a different  political  party  to 
that  of  which  Aubrey  was  a leader. 

And  little  by  little  the  impression  grew  into  a certainty 
with  the  world  that  Guilderoy,  however  blamable,  had  had 
much  cause  to  blame  others,  and  to  leave  the  country. 


CHAPTEE  LI. 

The  delicately  good  taste  of  Beatrice  Soria  had  made  it  easy 
for  the  high  society  of  Europe  to  see  nothing,  if  it  chose  to 
see  nothing,  blamable  in  the  renewed  intimacy  between  her 
and  Guilderoy.  Theirs  was  one  of  those  positions — they  are 
not  rare — in  which  the  popularity  or  unpopularity  of  the 
persons  concerned  wholly  determines  the  amount  of  in- 
dulgence or  of  censure  which  they  shall  receive  from  others. 
Tact  goes  for  much  in  this,  an^*  ^af\nction  for  much.  The 


332 


GUILDEROY. 


great  lady  does  unblamed  what  the  woman  of  yesterday  would 
he  stoned  for  attempting.  There  is  a sublime  nonchalance 
and  a calm  superiority  to  calumny  which  repel  it  utterly, 
much  more  effectually  than  any  mere  virtue.  The  world  hut 
asks  from  us  external  observances  ; if  we  do  not  give  these,  we 
are  such  fools  that  we  merit  that  sentence  of  banishment  from 
it  which  is  as  terrible  as  the  fiat  of  exile  to  Ovid.  Beatrice 
Soria  had  always  been  heedful  to  give  those  observances ; not 
from  want  of  courage,  for  she  had  great  courage,  but  from 
good  breeding.  It  seemed  to  her  vulgar  to  put  out  your 
passions  in  the  street,  as  the  poor  hang  their  soiled  linen.  It 
is  enough  for  you  to  know  your  own  happiness ; you  do  not 
want  the  crowd  to  see  the  rose  hung  above  your  portal. 

She  had  made  it  her  condition  that  he  should  now  leave 
bis  wife  utterly  for  her  sake,  because  it  seemed  to  her  that 
nothing  less  than  that  could  atone  to  her  for  his  abandon- 
ment of  herself,  could  reconcile  her  to  her  own  lost  dignity, 
or  ensure  her  against  a merely  partial  offering  of  his  life, 
such  as  would  have  seemed  to  her  at  once  an  insolence  and 
a humiliation.  “ I alone,  or  nothing ! ” she  had  said  ; as  every 
woman  says  it,  although  so  few  have  power  to  enforce  it.  It 
had  been  the  only  means  by  which  she  had  been  able  to  test 
the  sincerity  of  his  regret  and  the  loyalty  of  his  return. 

True,  she  had  sacrificed  to  it  an  innocent  woman  ; but  it 
was  only  natural  that  the  fulness  of  her  own  triumph  had 
weighed  more  with  her  than  any  memory  of  her  rival’s 
misery.  Like  all  great  conquerors  she  felt  that  it  was  not 
for  her  to  heed  or  to  pause  for  the  fallen. 

She  was  in  no  way  a cruel  woman,  but  she  felt  the  con* 
tempt  of  all  women  who  have  great  dominion  over  men  for 
those  who  cannot  attain  equal  power  over  them. 

“ She  has  loveliness,  and  youth,  and  many  rare  qualities  of 
both  heart  and  mind,  and  yet  she  can  only  sigh  and  suffer 
because  he  is  faithless ! ” she  had  often  thought  with  wonder- 
ing disdain  of  Gladys  as  she  had  studied  her  in  society.  She 
allowed  nothing  in  their  apparent  intercourse  which  could 
give  rise  to  any  scandal,  except  such  as  must  be  inevitably 
caused  by  his  continued  residence  in  Italy.  She  made  him 
live  in  his  own  houses,  visit  her  with  precaution,  and  never 
publicly  presume  upon  his  relations  to  her.  It  was  her  wis- 
dom as  well  as  her  good  taste  which  influenced  her,  She 
knew  the  truth  that 

Dulcia  ferimus  : succo  renovamur  amore* 


GUILBJEROY . 


333 


fend  she  did  not  allow  their  intimacy  to  he  degraded  into  a 
i too  facile  habit  which  would  inevitably  have  become  with 
time  careless  and  over-sure. 

She  knew  his  nature  and  the  temperament  of  men  too  well 
to  allow  him  that  too  constant  access  to  happiness  which  soon 
results  in  making  such  happiness  insipid  and  unenjoyed.  All 
the  faults  which  had  cost  her  so  dear  in  her  first  association 
with  him  she  avoided  now  ; and  even  still  at  times  he  was  so 
doubtful  of  his  influence  over  her,  despite  all  the  proofs  he 
had  of  it,  that  he  asked  himself  uneasily  whether  his  surren- 
der to  her  had  not  been  demanded  by  her  rather  through 
pride  than  love.  It  was  the  uncertainty,  the  stimulant,  the 
mortification,  which  were  needful  to  sustain  at  its  strength 
the  passion  of  a man  whose  conquests  had  been  as  easy  as  his 
caprices,  and  had  been  short-lived. 

“ Even  now  I do  not  believe  that  you  love  me  as  you  used 
to  do ! ” he  said  to  her  more  than  once. 

She  smiled. 

“ What  is  love  ? ” she  said  dreamily.  “ Sometimes  I think 
it  is  the  most  absurd  and  the  basest  feeling  of  our  lives  ; and 
sometimes  I think  it  is  the  only  spark  of  immortality  which 
we  ever  have  in  us.” 

“ It  seems  to  me  immortal  when  I look  on  you,”  he  an- 
swered ; and  he  was  sincere  in  what  he  said. 

All  these  months  had  passed  with  him  in  a happiness 
which  had  been  more  nearly  the  ideal  happiness  of  his 
early  dreams  than  any  he  had  ever  known.  His  re-conquest 
of  her  glorious  physical  beauty  and  the  potent  and  subtle 
charm  of  her  intelligence  exercised  a sway  over  him  which 
was  deeper  and  more  enduring  than  the  first  passion  which 
she  had  excited  in  him.  The  amorous  spell  which  lies 
in  the  climate  of  the  country  which  had  always  been  the 
land  of  his  preference,  and  the  easy  languor  of  life  in  it,  added 
to  the  spell  of  her  influence  upon  him.  He  marvelled  how- 
ever he  could  have  been  mad  enough  to  leave  her ; he 
wondered  how  he  had  passed  years  of  his  existence  without 
her.  Either  warned  by  her  previous  loss  of  him,  or  calmed 
by  the  greatness  and  completeness  of  her  triumph,  or  per- 
chance bringing  rnw  into  her  relations  with  him  as  much  of 
wisdom  as  she  had  once  brought  of  passion,  she  gave  him  all 
the  loveliness  of  love  without  its  exactions  and  its  violence. 
She  bent  all  the  varied  resources  of  her  mind,  which  were  iiv- 
finite,  and  all  the  powers  of  her  seductions,  which  were  end- 


334 


GXJ1LDER0Y. 


less,  to  prove  to  him  all  that  he  had  missed  in  missing  her, 
all  which  no  other  woman  on  earth  could  give  to  him  ; and  she 
succeeded.  She  succeeded,  now  that  it  was  a matter  with  her 
rather  of  supremacy,  and  prilde,  and  triumph,  than  of  love, 
where  she  had  failed  when  it  had  been  to  her  a thing  of  life  and 
of  death,  on  which  all  her  soul  had  been  cast.  Passion  serves 
women  ill ; it  makes  their  eyes  blind,  their  steps  rash,  their 
acts  unwise,  and  unselfishness  in  love  serves  them  still  worse. 
Desire  of  dominion,  on  the  contrary,  is  their  most  safe  and 
subtle  servant,  placing  illimitable  power  in  their  hands  and 
leaving  their  sight  clear  to  use  it  in  their  own  interest  as 
they  will. 

Beatrice  Soria  had  been  a better  woman  when  he  had 
thought  her  a worse  one,  a tenderer  woman  when  he  had 
thought  her  a more  violent  one ; her  heart  still  beat  for  him, 
but  no  more  with  the  rash,  ardent,  delirious  warmth  of  earlier 
days.  Dominant  over  her  impulses  of  revived  passion  was  a 
colder  and  more  egotistic  intent  to  make  him  and  to  keep 
him  once  more  wholly  hers. 

In  the  autumn  of  the  year,  Guilderoy  was  for  a while  in 
Venice,  nominally  living  at  his  own  palazzino  there,  whilst 
she  was  at  one  of  the  villas  of  the  Brenta  which  she  had  in- 
herited as  part  of  her  mother’s  dower ; one  of  those  marvels 
of  art  and  architecture  which  stand  amidst  the  gladiolus- 
filled  marshes  and  the  green  mulberry-shaded  pastures  of  the 
Veneto,  so  little  known,  so  rarely  visited,  but  as  much  me- 
morials of  the  greatness  and  luxury  of  the  Venetian  patricians 
as  are  the  streets  of  the  city  herself.  In  early  autumn,  when 
the  rose  and  white  alveoloe  are  in  flower  in  all  the  hedges, 
and  the  last  aftermath  is  being  mown  in  the  meadows,  and 
the  barges  come  down  the  river  laden  with  purple  and  yellow 
grapes,  and  the  marvellous  sunsets  burn  over  the  wide- 
spreading  waters,  and  the  little  gray  owls  flit  under  the 
poplar  shadows,  these  villas  on  the  Brenta  form  as  lovely  a 
retreat  as  the  world  can  offer  ; and  the  gayety  and  the  pageant- 
ry of  Goldoni  and  of  Carpaccio  seem  to  be  renewed,  and  the 
lovely  ladies  and  the  gay  gallants  of  Rosalba  and  of  Longhi 
seem  to  live  again  in  them. 

Por  the  most  part  they  are,  unhappily,  abandoned  to  neg- 
lect, decay,  and  silence  ; but  in  hers  the  animation,  the  bril- 
liancy, and  the  courtliness  which  her  society  brought  thither 
were  worthy  of  the  traditions  of  Catarina  Corner,  the  adored 
and  adorable  who  once  had  held  her  court  there. 


&UlLDflB0r. 


§35 


Guilderoy  was  little  in  the  city,  much  at  the  villa,  and  the 
da^s  were  long  and  light  and  sensuous  and  soft  as  the  music 
of  G-retry,  which  had  used  to  echo  over  those  waters  and 
down  those  marble  colonnades  in  the  days  of  Madama 
Cattina. 

One  of  the  most  potent  seductions  of  Beatrice  Soria  lay  in 
the  forms  of  life  with  which  she  surrounded  herself.  The 
atmosphere  in  which  a woman  lives  stimulates,  or  kills,  love 
for  her,  as  much  as  does  her  person  or  her  mind.  Even  one 
who  is  not  beautiful  derives  a certain  reflection  of  beauty 
from  beautiful  surroundings  ; and  where  she  has  ever  about 
her  pleasure,  grace,  and  gayety,  she  will  have  in  them  strong 
auxiliaries  to  charm  and  retain  those  whom  she  desires  to 
please.  The  varied  and  brilliant  existence  which  she  created 
by  her  magnificent  modes  of  living,  and  her  unusual  wit, 
made  her  houses  wholly  unlike  any  other. 

“ You  alone  know  how  to  live  ! some  one  said  to  her  once  ; 
and  she  thought  sadly,  “ Yes ; I know  how  to  live  ; it  is  much, 
no  doubt,  but  how  to  exorcise  that  spirit  of  dissatisfaction 
which  dulls  all  sooner  or  later  would  be  more — how — how  ? 
It  has  perplexed  and  baffled  every  voluptuary  and  every 
artist  since  the  world  began  ! ” She  interrogated  in  vain  the 
shades  of  the  great  pleasure-seekers  and  the  glad  lovers  who 
had  passed  down  those  marble  staircases  and  under  those 
canopies  of  trellised  vine  before  her,  in  the  days  that  were 
dead. 

Sulle  rive  d’ Adria  bella. 

Men  had  always  been  her  playthings  ; she  had  done  what- 
ever she  had  chosen  with  them  ; but  she  had  always  for  them 
that  indolent,  indulgent,  and  yet  at  times  impatient  derision 
with  which  a woman  of  high  intelligence  and  profound  pas- 
sions is  apt  to  regard  both  her  lovers  and  her  friends. 

And  in  her,  now,  besides  this,  was  a vague,  slight — very 
vague,  very  slight — sense  of  disappointment. 

Was  it  because  she  failed  to  feel  those  intensities  of  emo- 
tion which  she  had  felt  before  ? Was  it  because  no  one  sum- 
mer is  like  another?  Was  it  because  the  mind  and  nature 
change  with  time,  and  what  is  delightful  and  exquisite  in 
one  season  cannot  wholly  content  them  in  another  ? Or  was 
it  because  the  passions  are  such  subtle,  self-willed,  and  mys- 
terious agents  of  our  being  that  they  resist  the  appeal  to 
them  to  build  in  last  year’s  nests  ? She  could  not  tell  ; all 
the  penetration  and  intuition  of  her  intelligence  and  experi* 


336 


GUiLTjEROT. 


ence  did  not  suffice  to  explain  to  her  why  this  vague,  iaint 
sense  of  disappointment  followed  on  the  renewal  of  her 
romance. 

It  was  no  fault  of  his. 

He  was  the  most  devoted  and  the  most  tender  of  lovers. 
It  was  perhaps  that  her  memory  and  her  imagination  had 
expected  more  than  it  was  humanly  possible  for  any  leve  to 
give  from  their  reunion  ; or  perhaps  she  unconsciously  missed 
the  stimulant  of  that  desire  to  regain  his  affections  which 
had  moved  all  her  strongest  feelings  since  his  marriage.  She 
had  nothing  more  left  to  wish  for ; in  the  full,  rich,  and  pam- 
pered life  of  Beatrice  Soria  that  fact  was  almost  a loss  in 
itself.  She  felt  for  him  tenderly  and  with  warmth,  indeed  ; 
but  it  was  not  the  same  feeling  as  had  subjugated  all  her 
soul  and  her  senses  in  the  first  days  of  its  ascendency. 

“ Perhaps  I grow  old,  and  so  indifferent/’  she  thought ; 
but  then  she  looked  in  her  mirror  and  smiled,  and  knew 
that  it  was  not  that. 

Was  it  then  the  inevitable  reaction  of  expectations  too 
great  for  finite  human  passions  to  fulfil  them  ? Was  it  that 
the  lost  music  had  seemed  so  sweet  in  its  remembrance  that 
no  strain  of  it,  heard  now,  could  never  seem  to  equal  it  in 
melody  ? “I  loved  him  better  when  he  was  n.t  mine,”  she 
thought  sometimes  with  the  saddest  consciousness  that  can 
ever  visit  love.  Alas  ! it  is  not  an  unfrequent  visitant. 

Coming  down  the  Grand  Canal  one  early  forenoon,  when 
the  pressure  of  gondolas  there  was  greater  than  usual  owing  to 
some  Church  festival,  his  own  was  jostled  between  two  others 
and  had  to  pause  in  its  outward  voyage  while  the  rival  rowers 
exchanged  the  usual  maledictions  with  uplifted  oars  and  in- 
finite variety  of  florid  oaths.  He  heard  his  own  name  spoken 
by  one  of  two  men  who  were  sketching  in  a gondola  tied  to 
one  of  the  piles  before  a water-gate.  They  were  making 
drawings  of  all  that  is  left  of  the  Falier  palace,  and  of  its 
little  garden  court  and  wooden  wicket ; they  were  painters 
well  known  in  the  artistic  world  of  London,  and  they  recog- 
nized him  as  he  passed. 

u Where  is  his  wife,  do  you  know  ? ” said  one  of  them. 
u She  was  a lovely  creature.  You  remember  Leighton’s  por- 
trait of  her  three  years  ago  ? ” 

“ She  is  always  living  alone  in  a little  house  on  the  se# 
coast,  I believe,”  replied  the  other. 

" Separated,  then  ? ” 


GUILD  EE  OY.  33  f 

“Yes,  virtually.  Lord  Aubrey  consoles  her,  I believe. 
Some  people  say  that  he  always  did.” 

“ Aubrey  ? The  Minister  ? ” 

“The  man  who  was  Minister  in  the  last  Administration — 
yes.  There  is  only  one.  He  is  this  man’s  cousin.’’ 

“ The  relationship  gave  him  opportunities,  I suppose?” 

The  other  artist  laughed;  and  they  both  went  on  with  the 
drawing  of  the  little  acacia  tree  by  the  green  gate  of  the 
court  of  the  palazzo. 

Guilderoy  felt  a strange  emotion  as  his  gondola,  extricated, 
passed  on  its  way  towards  the  Lido.  There  was  no  truth,  he 
knew,  in  this  foolish  gossiping;  and  yet  it  wounded,  offended 
tod  irritated  him. 

As  he  passed  outward  on  his  way  towards  the  lagoon,  lying 
back  on  his  black  cushions,  he  could  not  shake  off  the  rough, 
unpleasant  impression  of  the  words  which  he  had  overheard. 
Was  that  how  they  were  talking  of  him  in  England  ? Such 
a possibility  had  never  come  before  his  thoughts  before. 

He  had  actually  and  morally  set  his  wife  as  free  as  though 
his  death  had  released  her  from  him.  He  did  not  believe 
that  Aubrey  had  as  yet  become  her  lover,  but  he  suddenly 
realized  that  it  was  a possibility  which  was  more  than  possible. 
It  did  not  find  him  indifferent.  It  touched  that  sensitive 
nerve  in  him  which  men  call  honor  for  want  of  a clearer  name 
for  it,  although  it  is  in  truth  rather  personal  pride  and 
love  of  dignity  than  honor. 

It  suddenly  waked  the  image  of  Gladys  from  that  dim  for- 
gotten past  into  which  it  had  retreated,  and  restored  her  to 
a place,  not  in  his  heart  indeed,  but  in  his  memories  and  in 
his  susceptibilities. 

She  had  seemed  to  him  scarcely  more  than  a shade,  as  she 
had  last  appeared  before  him  in  the  ghastly  and  pallid  hues 
of  the  dream-like  chambers  of  the  Neapolitan  palace  ; an 
avenging  shape  arisen  to  reproach  him  and  to  curse  him. 
But  now  she  became  more  than  this ; he  realized  that  she 
was  a living  woman  of  breathing  life  and  motion,  who  had  it 
in  her  power,  if  she  chose,  to  return  him  the  harm  that  he 
had  done  to  her  by  a vengeance  which  would  touch  him  to 
the  quick  and  humble  him  in  the  eyes  of  all  men. 

And  why  should  she  not  do  it  ? If  she  did,  could  h© 
honestly  blame  her  ? 

He  knew  he  could  not. 

Why  should  he  demand  from  a young  and  lonely  woman  a 


338 


GUTZnttROY. 


fore©  of  self-control  of  which,  his  own  strength  and  manhccwl 
had  been  incapable  ? The  consciousness  oppressed  and 
haunted  him  with  a vague  dread.  He  remembered  the  warn- 
ing Aubrey  had  given  him;  Nil  Helen  peccat . Had  his  cousin 
meant  to  give  him  in  it  a personal  and  not  a general  adveiy 
tisement  of  impending  possible  ill?  Had  Aubrey  with  his 
habitual  candor,  meant  to  say  to  him,  “ What  you  do  not  car* 
to  guard  I shall  consider  that  I am  at  liberty  to  approach  as 
I may  choose  ? v He  knew  the  loyalty  and  frankness  of 
his  cousin’s  character;  it  would,  he  knew,  be  very  like  him 
that  on  the  eve  of  a prohibited  attachment  he  should  frankly 
endeavor  to  warn  and  place  on  his  defence  the  man  whose 
honor  would  be  involved. 

It  was  a beautiful  afternoon  as  his  boatmen  took  him,  a 
few  hours  later,  up  the  Brenta  water,  through  the  sparkling 
sunshine.  The  leaves  were  yellow  on  the  poplars,  and  the 
trees  looked  made  of  gold.  The  wide  green  meadows  were 
bathed  in  light.  The  thatch  roofs  of  the  cottages  looked  like 
the  brown  nests  of  big  birds  amongst  the  ever-flowering 
foliage.  Huge  barges  and  flat-bottomed  boats,  with  painted 
sails,  leaning  motionless  on  the  lazy  air,  passed  him  laden 
with  grapes  and  gourds,  amber  pears  and  rosy-cheeked  apples. 
The  far  hills  were  sweet  and  fair  with  all  the  colors  of  the 
opal  and  the  amethyst  in  them.  But  the  beautyof  the  scene 
was  lost  on  him. 

He  was  thinking  ever  of  the  Nil  Helen  peccat. 

When  he  reached  the  water-stairs  of  the  villa,  with  steps 
of  marble  shelving  down  into  the  bulrushes  and  yellowing 
water-lily  leaves,  the  day  had  grown  dark.  It  was  the  hour 
of  reunion  in  the  great  central  hall,  with  columns  and  sculp- 
tures of  Sansovino  and  a domed  ceiling  where  frescoes  of 
Tiepolo’s  were  lost  in  the  immense  height  of  the  vault.  Its 
owner  was  accustomed  to  gather  her  guests  about  her  there 
before  dinner  in  the  autumn  evenings,  when  the  great  olive 
and  oak  logs  burning  on  the  enormous  hearth  under  its 
porphyry  caryatides  had  a welcome  warmth  as  the  cold 
vapors  of  night  succeeded  to  the  warm  sunshine  of  the  passed 
day. 

He  felt  out  of  mood  for  that  gay  circle  ; for  once,  when  he 
hacil  changed  his  clothes  and  joined  it,  the  brilliant  gathering, 
wdiere  the  men  had  the  wit  of  Carlo  Gozzi  and  the  women 
the  beauty  of  Teresa  Venier,  jarred  upon  him  in  its  brilliancy 
and  mirth* 


GUILDEROT . 339 

M You  have  taken  a chill  on  the  water,”  some  one  said  to 
him.  He  answered  absently,  “ No — yes — perhaps.” 

Much  later  in  the  evening  Beatrice  Soria  herself  noticed 
his  preoccupation. 

“ You  have  heard  something  which  displeased  you  of  your 
wife,”  she  mused,  for  her  quick  intuition  let  her  read  the 
souls  of  men,  even  in  their  secrecies,  like  open  hooks. 

She  had  taken  means  to  inform  herself  of  the  manner  in 
which  Gladys  had  chosen  to  live,  though  her  name  had  never 
once  been  mentioned  between  them. 

To  Beatrice  Soria  she  was  a woman  beaten,  forsaken,  in- 
different, insignificant  ; she  pitied  her  and  never  spoke  of 
her.  But,  she  mused,  it  was  so  like  a man  because  he  had 
deserted  her  to  think  of  her,  even  to  think  of  her  regretfully  ! 
Men  were  such  children  ; such  weak,  wayward,  fearful  chil- 
dren— as  she  had  said  once  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames  to 
Aubrey — always  wanting  that  which  they  have  not,  always 
regretting  their  own  actions  when  it  is  too  late  to  efface 
them,  always  putting  the  blame  upon  Fate  which  is  due  to 
their  own  folly,  caprice  or  instability  ! 

It  is  always  “ The  woman  tempted  me  and  I did  eat,”  in 
the  wilderness  of  the  world  as  in  the  Garden  of  Eden 

u You  are  ill  at  ease  and  out  of  spirits,”  she  said  as  she 
passed  him.  “ Do  not  look  so  ; people  will  say  that  I tyran- 
nize over  you ; nothing  is  more  absurd  than  that.” 

u I cannot  tutor  my  looks,”  he  answered,  with  impatience. 
“ Perhaps  I am  not  well.  I do  not  know.” 

They  were  unobserved  for  a moment : others  were  dancing. 
He  looked  at  her  with  an  imploring  gaze. 

u You  do  love  me  ? ” he  added.  “ Tell  me  again.” 

“ What  a child  you  are  ! ” she  said  with  a smile.  “ What 
is  the  use  of  saying  what  is  proved  ? ” 
u But  is  it  proved  ? ” 

“ What  can  you  possibly  mean  ? ” 

“ I mean,  in  this  gorgeous  life  of  yours,  flattered,  amused, 
ahd  adored  as  you  are,  what  room  is  there  for  any  great  or 
exclusive  feeling  ? ” 

“ It  seems  to  me,  my  friend,  that  it  is  very  late  for  that 
doubt  to  come  to  you.” 

“ Perhaps  I am  jealous.  You  have  so  many  who  love  you, 
and  you  are  too  indulgent  with  them.” 

“ Do  not  become  Othello  because  we  are  in  the  Yeneto.  It 


340 


GU1LDEROY. 


will  not  suit  you  in  any  way.  Your  love  has  always  jean 
galanterie” 

“Not  always.” 

“ Yes,  always,  I tliink,  at  heart.” 

“That  is  cruelly  unjust!  What  greater  evidence — — ” 

Coldness  and  anger  came  into  her  eyes. 

“Do  not  remind  me  of  your  sacrifices!  It  is  very  bad 
taste.” 

“Sacrifices!  Who  spoke  of  sacrifices  ? I simply  meant, 
what  more  could  any  man  do  than  I have  done  ? ” 

“ I do  not  know,  my  dear,  that  it  was  so  very  much  that 
you  did.  You  were  tired  of  your  English  wife;  what  we 
are  tired  of  it  does  not  cost  much  to  renounce,  and  some 
people  do  say  that  it  was  rather  your  wife  who  renounced 
you  than  you  your  wife.” 

“That  is  utterly  untrue.” 

“ It  may  be,”  said  Beatrice  Soria  with  a gesture  of  entire 
indifference.  “ I suppose  you  quarrelled.  We  will  not 
quarrel,  my  dear ; it  is  the  sorriest  and  the  meanest  grave 
that  love  can  ever  find.” 

She  passed  her  hand  lightly  over  his  hair  as  she  spoke, 
with  something  which  was  compassionate  and  mournful  in 
the  lingering  caress. 

“Now  go  and  join  those  dancers  and  look  happy.  I can- 
not have  my  people  think  I make  you  otherwise  than  happy. 
In  truth,  you  will  never  be  happy  very  long,  for  you  are  life’s 
spoilt  child.” 

He  kissed  with  passionate  fervor  the  whiteness  of  her  arm 
as  it  was  near  his  lips. 

“ You  have  made  me  as  happy  as  a god  this  whole  long 
year.” 

“ Then  it  should  seem  a very  short  year  to  you ! ” she  said 
with  her  low  sweet  smile,  and  left  him  to  join  her  guests. 

His  eyes  followed  her  with  worship.  Alone  for  her  had 
he  ever  approached  that  strength  and  constancy  of  passion 
which  is  the  love  of  the  poets.  It  was  foreign  to  his  tem- 
perament, and  ill  akin  to  all  his  inconstant  habits,  but  it 
had  been  illumined  in  him  for  her.  A vague  and  painful 
sense  perpetually  haunted  him  that  though  he  again  pos- 
sessed her  he  did  not  again  possess  her  soul ; that  though  he 
had  renewed  his  position  towards  her,  he  was  powerless  to 
regain  over  her  that  vital  ascendancy  which  he  had  once 
owned  and  had  wantonly  thrown  away;  and  this  doubt  increased 


GUILDEROY.  341 

the  influence  she  had  upon  him  by  the  perpetual  conscious- 
ness which  he  felt  of  uncertainty  and  inequalitj^. 

When  he  had  had  power  to  nlake  her  absolute  wretched- 
ness, to  be  her  arbiter  of  fate,  to  cause  her  tortures  by  a day’s 
absence,  by  a month’s  silence,  by  a careless  homage  taken 
elsewhere,  he  had  been  indifferent  to  his  power  and  often 
also  too  indifferent  to  her  pain.  But  now  their  positions 
were  reversed;  he  did  not  feel  for  an  instant  that  he  was 
vitally  necessary  to  her;  he  did  not  feel  that  she  was  life 
and  death  to  him  and  mistress  in  the  uttermost  sense  of  all 
his  fate. 


CHAPTER  till. 

A few  days  later  Guilderoy  sent  to  one  of  his  men  of  busi- 
ness to  come  to  Venice.  There  was  an  intricate  question 
pending  in  England,  affecting  some  leases  on  one  of  his  es- 
tates, which  afforded  reason  enough  to  summon  his  land-agent 
to  a personal  conference.  When  the  matter  had  been  dis- 
cussed in  its  financial  and  legal  aspects,  he  inquired  as  care- 
lessly as  he  could: 

“ And  what  of  Lady  Guilderoy  ? Is  she  well  ? Is  she  al- 
ways living  in  the  house  her  father  had  at  Christslea  ? ” 

His  agent  answered  in  the  affirmative,  feeling  on  his  part 
considerable  embarrassment,  for  this  separation,  into  which 
the  law  did  not  enter,  this  unexplained  and  unregulated  sever- 
ance, was  little  understood  by  any  of  his  people. 

“ And  does  she  keep  herself  wholly  withdrawn  from  the 
world  ? ” he  added.  “ Does  she  see  no  one  ? I regret  it  if  it 
is  so ; she  is  too  young  for  such  solitude.” 

“ She  sees  no  one,”  said  the  man  of  business,  more  and 
more  in  doubt  as  to  what  answers  he  should  make.  “ At  least 
Lord  Aubrey  comes  sometimes,  as  no  doubt  your  lordship 
knows.” 

Guilderoy’s  face  flushed.  “ Yes,  I have  asked  him  to  do 
so,”  he  said  quickly. 

It  was  a falsehood,  but  it  was  an  instinctive  one  to  save  her 
from  suspicion. 

He  inquired  no  more. 

The  agent  returned  home  with  a doubt,  which  had  not  be- 
fore visited  him,  that  Lady  Guilderoy  was  nof  §o  wholly  in- 
nocent as  she  looked. 


342 


GTJILDEROY' 


iC  After  all,”  thought  the  man,  “she  keeps  him  out  of  Eng- 
land ; so  it  is  she  who  must  be  to  blame,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
of  that.” 

He  had  told  Aubrey  himself  that  it  was  a pity  that  he  had 
not  married  her,  and  he  had  thought  so  honestly.  They 
would  have  been  perfectly  sympathetic  one  to  another.  Yet 
the  knowledge  that  these  sympathies  which  were  between 
them  had  now  full  leisure  and  free  scope  to  be  developed  and 
indulged  in  any  way  they  chose,  in  the  absolute  loneliness  of 
Christslea,  was  detestable  to  him.  After  all,  he  thought,  he 
could  not  refuse  her  the  liberty  which  he  had  himself  taken. 
It  would  have  seemed  to  him  mean  and  unworthy  to  enjoy  a 
freedom  for  himself  which  he  did  not  accord  to  her.  He  had 
the  large  morality,  or  immorality,  of  a man  of  the  world ; if 
she  could  console  herself  in  any  way  for  the  disorder  and 
desolation  which  he  had  brought  into  her  life,  he  would  be 
a brute  to  grudge  it  to  her.  So  he  reasoned. 

He  had  put  her  out  of  his  own  existence  ; he  could  not  com- 
plain if  she  made  a separate  life  for  herself.  And  yet  the 
idea  of  his  cousin  alone  with  her  in  those  little  quiet  rooms 
of  Christslea  was  disagreeable  to  him.  She  had  said  that  she 
would  always  respect  the  honor  of  his  name ; but  those  were 
only  words,  though  they  might  have  been  words  sincerely 
meant  when  they  were  spoken.  He  knew  that  the  heart  of 
any  woman  once  seriously  involved  will  force  her  to  abandon 
her  strongest  principles,  as  the  warmth  of  summer  forces  the 
willow  and  the  sycamore  to  drop  their  spring-time  catkins. 
And  he  thought  of  her  more  than  he  had  ever  done  before. 

She  had  grown  very  vague  to  him.  His  memory  had  but 
seldom  reverted  to  her.  He  possessed  the  happy  faculty  of 
being  able  to  dismiss  from  his  mind  what  he  did  not  wish  to 
think  of ; and  the  coldness,  the  harshness,  and  the  scorn 
with  which  she  had  spoken  to  him  in  their  last  interview 
had  hardened  his  heart  utterly  against  her.  But  since  the 
words  of  his  man  of  business,  few  and  trite  though  they 
were,  the  manner  of  her  life  came  before  him  more  painfully, 
more  positively.  The  little  house  at  Christslea  and  the  rec- 
ollection of  John  Yernon  came  to  his  recollection  with  painful 
clearness.  He  remembered  the  first  day  that  he  had  gone 
thither  and  been  welcomed  with  such  frank  cordiality  and 
simplicity.  He  had  repaid  the  welcome  ill ; he  knew  it, 
and,  being  by  nature  generous,  the  sense  of  his  own  lack  of 
generosity  oppressed  him  with  a sense  of  error  y/hich  all  the 


QUILbEBOT.  343 

moralists  on  earth  would  never  have  succeeded  in  bringing 
home  to  him. 

As  he  walked  in  the  glad  sunshine  by  the  hanks  of  the 
Brenta,  he  thought  of  Christslea  as  he  knew  that  it  must  be 
then  ; bleak,  cold,  gray,  cheerless,  with  dull,  angry  waters, 
and  high  winds  blowing  through  black,  leafless  trees,  and 
lonely  moorlands  shrouded  in  icy  mists.  Winter  on  that 
coast  had  always  seemed  to  him  an  unendurable  and  hateful 
thing;  and  yet  she  was  living  through  it  by  deliberate 
* choice,  uncompanioned,  unfriended  and  alone.  Nay — not 
always  alone.  She  had  Aubrey.  Aubrey  was  a man  of 
scrupulous  honor  he  knew ; but  he  also  knew  that  there  are 
hours  in  the  lives  of  all  those  who  love  in  which  resistance 
and  strength  sleep  like  the  tired  Samson  in  the  noon  siesta. 
He  knew,  too,  that  his  own  conduct  had  given  him  no  title 
to  complain  of  whatever  advantage  any  other  man  might 
take  of  his  absence. 

Aubrey  was  there,  sometimes  at  least,  in  such  familiar  in- 
tercourse as  solitude  in  the  country  perforce  creates.  The 
idea  was  not  welcome  to  him.  There  had  been  occasionally 
in  him  a vague  impatience  of  the  high  esteem  in  which  she 
held  his  cousin,  and  the  comparison  which  she  had  openly 
drawn  more  than  once  between  their  manner  of  life.  Au- 
brey had  been  indifferent  to  women,  but  women  had  never 
been  indifferent  to  him ; his  person,  his  intellect,  and  his 
fame  were  all  such  as  might  well  captivate  a poetic  and  seri- 
ous woman  such  as  Gladys  was,  especially  if  united  to  a ro- 
mantic and  chivalrous  devotion,  aided  by  the  auxiliaries  of 
solitude  and  misfortune. 

Guilderoy,  who  was  so  profoundly  versed  in  the  contradic- 
tions and  intricacies  of  the  feminine  temperament,  knew  that 
there  is  no  moment  at  which  it  is  so  susceptible  to  attach- 
ment as  that  in  which  it  is  bruised  and  bleeding  from  the 
offences  and  the  wounds  of  desertion. 

Well,  if  it  were  so,  he  told  himself,  he  had  no  right  to 
object  to  it,  or  to  censure  her  ; he  had  no  possible  title  to  ask 
her  to  lead  a joyless,  passionless  existence  in  the  full  flower 
of  her  youth  and  her  beauty.  He  had  taken  his  own  freedom, 
his  own  happiness  as  he  conceived  it  to  be  ; he  had  no  right 
whatsoever  to  deny  any  possible  compensation  to  her.  And 
yet  his  pride  was  hurt  at  the  possibility,  though  his  affec- 
tions were  wholly  indifferent  to  it. 

The  subject  occupied  his  thoughts  when  he  was  alone  to 


S44 


GtnLDEnor. 


an  extent  which  surprised  himself,  and  rendered  him  at 
times  preoccupied  when  in  society,  or  even  when  alone  with 
the  woman  he  loved. 

The  letters  of  his  sister  had  been  so  incessant  and  so 
monotonous  in  their  perpetual  invective  and  reproach  that 
he  had  wholly  ceased  to  reply  to  them,  and  of  late  had  long 
let  them  lie  unopened.  Her  reproaches  had  always  incensed 
him  ; and  now  that  he  felt  they  had  much  reason  for  their 
outcry  they  were  trebly  irritating  and  distasteful  to  him. 

But  when  his  man  of  business  had  left  him  he  remembered 
them  and  broke  the  seals  of  two  or  three  of  the  later  ones, 
and  glanced  rapidly  over  tfieir  contents,  passing  over  their 
oft-repeated  conjurations  and  condemnations  in  search  of  the 
recurrence  of  his  cousin’s  name.  He  found  it  more  than 
once.  In  the  last  letter,  which  had  a date  of  two  months 
past,  the  writer  wrote : 

“ The  whole  world  is,  I think,  in  accord  in  attributing 
your  wife’s  retreat  to  the  influence  of  your  cousin.  It  may 
be  right,  it  may  be  wrong  ; but  it  is  certain  that  it  thinks 
that  he,  much  more  than  you,  has  had  power  to  determine 
her  selection.  I give  no  opinion  myself.  Of  course  I always 
saw  that  he  was  more  than  commonly  attached  to  her;  but 
he  is  a man  of  honor,  and  he  would  not  throw  his  name  to 
the  four  winds  of  earth  as  you  throw  yours  for  the  sake  of 
any  woman.  Still,  he  is  mortal,  and  the  position  he  occupies 
is  at  once  very  dangerous  and  very  insidious  in  its  appeal  to 
his  sympathies.  He  is  the  only  person  whom  she  ever  sees, 
and  the  only  friend  who  is  admitted  to  advise  her.  His 
sister  has  repeatedly  argued  with  him  to  induce  him  to  see 
this  as  the  world  sees  it ; but  always  in  vain.  He  appears  to 
consider  that  he  is  the  natural  heir  to  the  duties  which  you 
have  declined  to  fulfil — to  what  extent  do  you  choose  him  to 
be  so  ? Whatever  may  happen,  you  cannot  complain  that  it 
happens  to  you  undeservedly.” 

He  read  the  lines  with  great  wrath  and  intolerant  impa* 
tience  ; then  tore  the  letter  up  and  with  it  those  of  similar 
strain  which  had  preceded  ifc.  She  was  always  a mischief- 
maker,  seeing  what  did  not  exist,  straining  at  gnats,  weaving 
ropes  of  moonshine,  setting  friend  against  friend,  and  sowing 
the  seeds  of  disunion  under  the  plausible  pretext,  and  perhaps 
in  the  honest  persuasion,  that  she  was  pleasing  God  and 
serving  man.  He  had  always  known  her  to  be  like  that  ever 
since  he  had  been  of  age  enough  to  be  at  all  observant  of 


GUILDEROY. 


345 


what  she  did  ; she  was  a good  woman — yes — like  thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands  of  good  women,  who  have  all  the  vir- 
tues in  their  own  persons  but  have  not  in  their  temperaments 
one  chord  of  sympathy,  one  fibre  of  indulgence,  one  touch  of 
that  erring  human  nature  which  makes  the  world  akin,  one 
single  impulse  of  that  sweet  and  tender  kindness  which 
soothes  and  stills  and  comforts  maladies  which  it  cannot 
cure. 

A perfectly  good  woman — yes — and  as  utterly  incapable  of 
doing  any  real  good  by  her  influence  as  though  she  were  the 
vilest  of  her  sex.  How  many  of  them  there  are  on  earth,  and 
how  many  men  have  lived  to  curse  them  as  they  never  cursed 
the  sinners ! He  threw  the  fragments  of  her  letters  with 
hatred  into  the  waters  of  the  canal  beneath  his  window.  He 
knew  the  irrepressible  pleasure  in  her  own  accuracy  of  pre- 
diction, in  the  vindication  of  her  own  forebodings  by  the 
present  facts,  which  had  been  in  her,  all  unknown  to  her, 
while  she  had  penned  all  the  invectives  and  lamentations 
which  had  preceded  and  followed  her  introduction  of  Aubrey’s 
name.  Some  hatred  he  felt  against  himself,  whose  actions 
had  given  up  the  fair  name  of  Gladys  to  the  malevolent 
speculation  of  the  world  and  to  the  gratified  jealousies  of  his 
sister. 

He  remembered  her  as  he  had  seen  her  first  in  her  father’s 
garden  in  the  late  autumn  afternoon,  with  the  dog’s  head  lean- 
ing against  her  knee  and  the  red  foliage  of  the  early  autumn 
touching  her  hair.  What  a base  return  he  had  given  for  that 
sincere  and  simple  welcome  ! She  had  spoiled  his  life  inno- 
cently, and  he  had  spoiled  hers  criminally.  Absolve  himself 
as  he  would,  his  conscience  perpetually  returned  to  convict 
him  of  his  offence.  He  forgot  the  intervening  years,  and 
only  thought  of  her  as  John  Vernon’s  daughter;  the  fair  and 
innocent  child  of  the  days  before  her  marriage.  His  feelings 
were  capricious  and  ephemeral,  but  they  rarely  lacked  gener- 
osity ; and  he  felt  that  he  to  her  had  been  ungenerous,  that 
he  had  not  allowed  enough  for  her  youth  and  her  inexperi- 
ence, that  he  had  brought  against  her  ignorance  all  the  un- 
equal forces  of  worldly  knowledge  and  trained  intelligence, 
and  that  he  had  received  her  life  into  his  hand  in  the  mere 
unformed  clay  of  girlhood  only  to  throw  it  in  pieces  among 
the  potsherds  of  calumny  when  it  had  become  the  full  am- 
phora of  womanhood.  Again  and  again  this  image  of  her 
recurred  to  him  with  increasing  reproach.  He  felt  an  un- 


846 


GTJILDEUOT. 


easy  and  restless  wish  to  return  to  his  own  country  for  a 
moment,  and  to  see  for  himself  what  truth  there  was  in  all 
these  stories  of  Aubrey’s  visits  to  her.  He  did  not  doubt  the 
facts  ; but  he  doubted,  or,  rather,  he  refused  to  believe,  the 
construction  put  on  them  by  others.  Aubrey  had  always 
been  her  friend,  he  certainly  would  not  have  ceased  to  be  so  ; 
but  from  friendship  to  love  there  were  distances  which  he  did 
not  credit  that  his  cousin  would  ever  pass.  The  honor  which 
fenced  in  the  wives  of  other  men  had  never  seemed  to  Guilde- 
roy  a very  high  or  impassable  fence ; but  the  honor  which 
surrounded  his  own  seemed  to  him  sacred  and  high  as  heaven. 
Yet  he  thought  often,  and  with  ever-increasing  irritation,  of 
that  stormy  and  sorrowful  isolation  of  Christslea  in  the  winter 
solstice  which  was  again  so  near. 

His  anger  deepened  against  her  with  his  remorse.  She 
had  rejected  all  his  offers,  she  had  withdrawn  herself  from 
his  home,  she  had  brought  the  condemnation  and  observa- 
tion of  the  world  upon  him  by  the  extravagance  and  strange- 
ness of  her  actions.  So  he  thought  and  so  he  reasoned  to 
himself;  but  all  his  anger  could  not  extinguish  his  conscious- 
ness of  having  drawn  her  into  a position  which  scarcely  any 
woman  of  her  years  could  possibly  issue  from  unharmed  and 
unslandered. 

He  had  thought  her  cold,  irresponsive,  unsympathetic ; 
but  he  had  been  always  sensible  of  the  fineness  and  purity 
of  the  many  qualities  of  her  character,  and  he  knew  that 
they  were  those  to  which  he  could  alone  now  look  for  self- 
control  and  self-sacrifice  strong  enough  to  bear  her  un- 
harmed through  such  an  ordeal  of  isolation  and  abandon- 
ment. 

“If  I could  speak  to  her,”  he  thought,  more  than  once; 
but  this  was  forbidden  him  by  ten  thousand  reasons.  His 
word  had  been  passed  to  the  woman  whom  he  loved ; his 
desires  had  been  granted  him  on  a condition  which  was  the 
more  imperious  because  based  solely  on  his  honor.  He  knew 
that  if  he  again  broke  his  word  to  her,  even  though  in  the 
very  smallest  and  slightest  thing,  he  would  fall  lower  than 
the  lowest  in  her  sight,  and  would  be  degraded  beyond  words 
in  his  own  forever.  He  had  received  the  gifts  of  her  life  on 
certain  terms  which  were  a millionfold  more  binding  on  hin? 
because  merely  left  to  his  own  good  faith.  His  knowledge 
of  Beatrice  Soria  told  him  that  the  meanest  galley-slave  at 
work  on  the  quays  of  Naples  would  seem  to  her  infinitely 


GVILDEROT.  34? 

manlier  and  worthier  than  he  if  in  the  merest  trifle  he  trans- 
gressed the  stipulation  she  had  made. 

She  had  left  him  wholly  free  to  accept  or  refuse  her  con- 
dition, but  she  had  understood,  and  had  the  right  to  under- 
stand, that  the  condition,  if  accepted,  was  inviolate.  He 
did  not  reproach  her  for  it ; she  could  have  asked  no  less, 
looking  both  to  the  past  and  to  the  future.  Nor  could  he 
have  said  that  he  regretted  it ; for  he  was  still  happy,  al- 
though one  fear  and  one  remorse  assailed  him — the  fear  that 
though  he  had  again  recovered  his  position  towards  her,  he 
had  never  recovered  his  influence  over  her ; and  the  remorse 
that  he  had  been  disloyal  to  the  promises  he  had  given  to 
John  Vernon. 

In  all  his  faults  and  follies  he  had  been  a man  of  delicate 
honor,  as  the  world  construes  the  conventional  honor  it  de- 
mands of  a gentleman  ; lie  had  never  given  the  world  the 
title  to  deride  or  to  disdain  him  ; he  had  always  been  care- 
ful to  keep  his  name  out  of  the  mud  of  public  discussion  and 
conjecture ; and  he  was  morbidly  sensitive  to  the  fact  that 
for  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  his  race,  a shadow,  if  not 
a stain,  had  been  cast  upon  his  name — one  which  might 
deepen  and  darken  as  the  years  passed  away,  and  most  prob- 
ably would  do  so,  whilst  he  would  be  powerless  to  efface  it 
and  would  have  but  himself,  to  thank  for  it.  In  the  conflict 
of  feelings  which  had  agitated  him  in  his  last  interview  with 
his  wife,  he  had  not  reflected  on  the  innumerable  conse- 
quences inevitable  on  his  action.  He  had  only  seen,  on  the 
one  side,  a woman  whom  he  passionately  regretted  and  loved, 
and  on  the  other  a woman  who  chilled,  fretted,  offended, 
and  alienated  him.  He  had  chosen  between  them  on  a 
natural  impulse,  with  scarce  a moment’s  hesitation  ; and  he 
had  cast  hardly  a thought  to  the  many  difficulties  and  pen- 
alties which  would  follow  on  his  choice. 

All  his  life  long  things  had  gone  well  with  him.  The 
most  serious  sorrow  of  it  had  been  his  repentance  for  his 
rupture  with  Beatrice  Soria,  and  she  had  been  entirely  right 
when  she  had  told  him  that  all  the  phases  of  his  love  had 
been  rather  gallantry  than  passion.  Deep  and  painful  emo- 
tions were  novel  to  him  and  hateful.  But  they  now  forced 
their  way  into  his  thoughts,  and  would  not  be  gainsaid. 

He  knew  well  the  estimates  of  men  of  the  world ; their 
large  tolerance  of  many,  and  their  intolerance  of  some  few 
things.  He  knew  that  amongst  these  few  must  be  his  own 


348 


GTTILDEROY, 


action  in  driving  so  young  and  blameless  a woman  as  hi* 
wife  into  her  present  position.  He  knew  that  his  contem- 
poraries, however  elastic  in  judgment,  must  be  now  his  severest 
critics,  not  for  what  he  had  done  as  for  how  he  had  done  it. 
He  had  put  himself  outside  the  pale  of  those  easy  indulgences 
which  the  world  willingly  accords  so  long  as  no  violence  is 
offered  to  its  codes  of  convention. 

He  was  proud,  and  his  pride  w^as  hurt  at  the  mere  thought 
of  how  all  his  friends  and  acquaintances  were  speaking  of 
him  whenever  they  remembered  him  at  all ; and  they  would 
so  remember  because  of  the  prominence  of  Aubrey’s  name. 
With  little  right  or  justice  in  his  anger,  he  grew  each  day 
more  deeply  angered  with  his  cousin.  He  persuaded  himself 
that  it  must  have  been  Aubrey’s  influence  which  had  decided 
so  young  a woman  as  Gladys  to  lead  so  strange  and  wretched 
a life. 

“ I left  her  everything  she  could  want  or  wish,”  he  thought 
in  his  self-justification.  “ She  was  free  to  live  in  the  world  at 
her  pleasure  ; I had  taken  care  that  no  blame  should  rest  on 
her,  and  I had  given  her  the  half  of  all  I possessed ; she 
might  have  been  happy,  quite  happy,  in  her  own  way  if  she 
had  chosen  ; it  was  not  I who  exiled  her  to  a cottage  by  a 
lonely  weather-beaten  shore,  and  bade  her  exist  on  the  pit- 
tance that  came  to  her  from  her  father.” 

Why  could  she  not  have  continued  to  enjoy  all  those 
material  consolations  and  compensations  with  which  he  had 
so  liberally  surrounded  her  ? If  she  had  done  that,  his  con- 
science would  have  been  at  rest,  and  the  world  would  have 
seen  in  their  separation  nothing  but  a mutual  and  excusable 
agreement  to  lead  their  lives  apart. 

It  must  have  been  Aubrey,  he  reasoned,  who  had  sustained 
her  in  her  headstrong  and  extravagant  resolution  ; it  was 
just  such  a choice  as  would  commend  itself  to  him,  austere, 
romantic,  and  unworldly. 

After  a few  weeks  of  irresolution  and  of  many  agitating 
and  conflicting  impulses,  he  said  abruptly  and  with  much 
embarrassment  to  the  Duchess  Soria. 

u It  is  absolutely  necessary  that  I should  go  to  England. 
Would  you  allow  and  not  misconstrue  it  ? ” 

She  looked  at  him  some  moments  before  she  replied : 
u My  dear,  I am  not  your  keeper.  And  I suppose  you 
have  honor  ? ” 


GUILDEROY.  343 

He  felt  himself  color  under  the  profound  gaze  of  her  deep 
eyes.  He  kissed  her  hand  with  emotion. 

“ I thank  you  ,”  he  said  simply ; he  knew  that  he  had.  once 
given  her  every  cause  to  mistrust  him  forever.  Her  con- 
tidence  in  him  seemed  very  noble,  and  appealed  to  him  as  no 
expressions  of  doubt  or  of  fear  could  have  done. 

“ I am  utterly  unworthy  of  her  ! ” he  thought  bitterly. 
How  often  his  suspicions  had  wronged  her  in  days  that  were 
gone  by  ; how  little  fitted  he  had  been  to  be  the  supreme 
passion  of  such  a woman’s  life. 

Several  days  passed  by  ; she  asked  him  neither  why  he 
lingered  nor  when  he  would  go.  That  reserve  in  one  to  whom 
he  had  given  every  title  to  doubt  his  word  in  their  past  re- 
lations seemed  to  him  very  magnanimous. 

He  loved  her,  he  thought,  more  than  he  had  ever  loved  her, 
out  all  the  strength  of  his  admiration  could  not  drive  out 
from  him  the  restless,  haunting  remembrance  of  what  might 
be  then  being  said  and  being  done  in  England. 

It  was  now  well  nigh  mid-winter  ; there,  dreary,  misty, 
cold,  with  drifting  snows;  here  gay,  luminous,  brilliant,  with 
gorgeous  sunsets  and  buoyant  wind-tossed  seas. 

“ I shall  be  away  but  a very  little  while,”  he  said  to  hei 
with  hesitation. 

u Go  as  you  will,”  she  answered  him.  He  felt  that  these 
reins  let  fall  thus  upon  his  neck  did  in  truth  and  honor  hold 
him  more  closely  than  all  chains. 

“ Ah  ! if  only  you  had  always  been  as  kind  and  as  gener- 
ous,” he  murmured,  thinking  of  those  other  days,  when  her 
impetuous  demands  and  her  violent  exactions  had  chafed  his 
soul  into  revolt. 

She  smiled  with  a little  sadness. 

“ Alas,  alas  ! ” she  thought,  “ men  should  not  quarrel  as 
they  do  with  our  jealousies  and  importunities  ; when  we 
cease  to  feel  them  life  has  taken  the  tenderest  fibre  out  of 
our  hearts.  1 am  never  jealous  of  him  now  ; but  sometimes 
I wish  to  Heaven  that  it  were  only  possible  that  I could  be  ! 
It  is  those  tempests  of  folly  which  give  birth  to  the  sweetest 
of  our  joys.” 

She  would  have  given  half  that  she  possessed  could  she 
only  once  more  have  felt  all  those  intense  and  exquisite  pains 
which  are  the  procreation  of  the  richest  joys,  could  only  his 
absence  have  tortured  her,  his  presence  intoxicated  her  as  it 
bad  once  done. 


350 


GUTLDEnor. 


Was  it  mere  caprice  or  wantonness  of  fate  that  now,  when 
he  was  so  utterly  her  own  in  all  ways,  she  had  so  little  glad* 
ness  in  her  empire  ? 

Was  it  indifference,  or  pride,  or  really  magnanimity  which 
made  her  leave  him  unquestioned  to  go  whither  he  would? 

“ Nay,”  she  thought,  and  rightly.  “ He  could  not  now  he 
faithless  to  his  promise  if  he  would.  The  handless  and  foot- 
less god  that  smote  Glaucus  would  smite  him  for  me.  He 
would  be  the  lowest  of  the  low.” 

And  she  let  him  go,  and  asked  him  nothing. 

“ Alas!”  she  thought  again.  “It  is  when  men  most  curse 
us  that  they  should  bless  us  most.  All  that  immense  love 
which  makes  them  into  the  deities  of  our  lives  only  wearies 
them,  satiates  them,  and  makes  them  cold  and  fretful  ; and 
yet,  if  only  they  knew  how  much  better  we  are  when  we  can 
still  feel  it ! — what  poor,  innocent,  fond  fools,  though  so  bur- 
densome to  them  ! And  when  it  is  gone,  it  is  gone  forever, 
and  something  which  was  best  in  us  is  gone  too,  and  we  live 
for  our  senses,  or  for  our  triumphs,  or  for  our  intelligences, 
but  we  live  for  a great  love  no  more  ! But  we  have  learned 
wisdom,  and  wit  comes  to  us  where  adoration  has  died,  and 
our  lovers  find  us  calmer,  and  they  deem  their  loss  their  gain 
— fools  ! fools  ! both  we  and  they  ! ” 


CHAPTER  LOT. 

He  went  without  halt  across  Europe  to  his  own  country  f: 
the  weather  was  cold  and  dark,  the  seas  were  stormy,  the 
winds  piercingly  cold : after  the  radiance  and  the  softness 
of  the  land  he  had  left,  it  seemed  to  him  like  entering  some 
dreary  Gehenna  of  tormented  and  icy  air.  He  travelled 
straightway  to  Ladysrood,  and  went  thither  unannounced. 
Pie  had  old  and  faithful  servants  who  kept  all  others  of  the 
household  in  obedience  and  subjection,  but  the  great  house 
had  a desolate  air  in  its  utter  abandonment.  There  was  little 
light,  little  warmth ; all  the  furniture  of  the  rooms  was 
shrouded  in  its  linen  coverings,  and  only  in  the  central  hail 
was  there  a large  fire  bjurning.  His  step  sounded  hollow  on 
floors  from  which  their  zealous  thrift  had  removed  the  car* 
pets,  and  the  hastily-lit  lamps  struggled  feebly  against  the 
general  gloom. 


GUILDEEOY. 


351 


u I have  always  told  you  to  keep  tlie  house  as  perfectly 
ready  as  though  you  expected  me  at  any  moment/’  he  said 
with  anger. 

The  people  were  afraid  to  reply  that  after  so  many  months 
of  absence  Lis  arrival  had  seemed  to  them  the  most  unlikely 
of  all  possible  chances. 

The  silence,  the  coldness,  and  the  loneliness  of  his  home 
chilled  him  to  the  bone.  It  seemed  an  emblem  of  tha*  soli- 
tude to  which  Gladys  was  condemned  in  her  youth.  The 
night  was  very  cold,  and  one  of  the  wild  winter  storms  of  the 
south-west  country  raged  without  until  morning.  He  slept 
very  little,  and  rose  from  his  bed  unrefreshed.  He  regretted 
that  he  had  come  there.  He  sighed  for  the  evergreen  orange 
and  magnolia  groves,  the  purpling  violets,  the  unfrozen 
fountains,  the  dancing  sun-rays  of  the  glad  gardens  of  the 
Soria  Palace.  Here  was  the  winter  of  the  earth  and  the 
winter  of  the  soul.  He  cursed  the  morbid  restlessness,  the 
uneasy  discontent,  which  had  drawn  him  from  his  paradise. 

How  that  he  was  here,  what  more  could  he  know  than  he 
knew?  He  could  not  seek  his  wife;  the  woman  whom  he 
loved  had  trusted  him  ; he  had  too  much  good  faith  and 
sentiment  of  honor  left  in  him  not  to  be  true  to  an  unwritten 
bond. 

The  storm  had  subsided  with  dawn,  but  the  day  was  dull 
and  heavy,  the  skies  were  obscured,  and  the  air  was  charged 
with  vapor.  The  sense  of  immense  weariness  and  depres- 
sion, which  had  in  other  years  always  come  upon  him  in  Eng- 
land in  winter,  returned  upon  him  a thousand-fold  now. 
He  passed  the  forenoon  in  his  library,  in  intercourse  with  his 
men  of  business  and  stewards,  in  the  examination  of  those 
questions  of  leasehold  and  freehold,  of  forest  rights  and  moor 
rights,  of  rents  and  investments,  which  had  been  the  ostensi- 
ble  reason  of  his  momentary  return  home.  It  was  well  for 
him  that  those  who  served  him  had  truly  his  interests  at 
heart,  for  he  heeded  very  little  the  explanations  which  they 
gave  him,  and  signed  many  papers  without  knowing  very 
clearly  why  he  did  so.  Ho  was  thinking,  as  he  apparently 
attended  to  the  prolix  arguments  of  his  visitants,  of  the 
day  when,  in  tin chamber,  he  had  .written  the  letter  which 
had  broken  off  his  relations  with  Beatrice  Soria.  He  was 
overwhelmed  with  the  greatness  of  her  pardon  when  he 
thought  of  that  unutterable  insult  to  the  proudest  of  all  liv- 
ing women.  Then  his  memories  wandered  away  from  her  to 


352 


GUILDER  OY. 


that  other  day  when  he  had  held  the  Horae  open  for  a young 
girl  to  read,  and  watched  her  first  blush  rise  like  sunrise  over 
her  fair  face.  It  was  only  five  years  before,  and  in  those  five 
years  what  suffering  he  had  caused  to  both  these  women ; 
and  yet  how  well  one  at  the  least  still  loved  him,  if  the  other 
— What  of  the  other? — even  if  she  had  been  even  too  passion- 
less to  care  for  him,  yet  how  much  she  had  lost  through  him  ! 

The  tedious  gray  day  wore  away  slowly,  most  of  its  hours 
occupied  with  prosaic  details  and  dull  discussions  of  ways 
and  means,  of  law  and  equity,  of  forestry  and  finance,  and 
all  the  various  matters  of  importance  which  grow  out  of  the 
management  of  great  estates  and  of  a great  fortune.  It  was 
dusk  when  his  people  left  him ; he  remained  in  the  library 
beside  the  hearth,  where  there  was  not  even  a dog  to  wel- 
come him. 

“ Where  is  Kenneth  ? ” he  asked  of  a servant  who  came  in 
at  that  moment  to  light  the  chandeliers.  Kenneth  was  a 
collie  which  had  been  a chief  favorite  with  both  himself  and 
Gladys. 

The  man  hesitated  with  some  embarrassment  as  to  how  he 
should  reply. 

u Where  are  Kenneth  and  the  other  house  dogs  ? ” repeated 
his  master  impatiently.  The  servant  answered  timidly  that 
her  ladyship  had  sent  for  them  to  Christslea  a year  ago. 

6C  Ah,  of  course  ; they  were  hers,”  Guilderoy  replied  quick- 
ly, regretful  of  his  question. 

She  had  been  quite  within  her  right  to  take  the  dogs,  nor 
did  he  grudge  her  their  innocent  companionship  ; but  the 
kind  brown  eyes  of  Kenneth  and  his  comrades,  if  they  had 
been  there  to  look  at  him  then,  would  have  seemed  to  break 
the  spell  of  this  horrible  loneliness,  to  ease  the  burden  of 
these  painful  memories  which  weighed  on  him. 

The  evening  was  yet  more  gloomy  than  the  day.  He 
paced  to  and  fro  the  suite  of  the  Queen  Anne  apartments 
wearily  and  drearily.  They  were  all  restored  to  their  fullest 
comfort,  and  had  all  that  light  and  warmth  and  the  fragrance 
of  hot-house  flowers  could  bring  to  them,  but  to  him  they 
were  immeasurably,  unconscionably  melancholy. 

All  his  past  life  came  before  him  in  those  solitary  hours. 
He  recalled  all  his  childish  ideals,  his  boy’s  admiration  of 
great  men,  his  vague  dreams  as  a youth  of  some  greatness 
which  he  would  achieve,  some  added  lustre  which  he  would 
bring  to  his  name  and.  race.  Where  had  all  these  gone  f 


GTTILDEBOY. 


SS3 


In  what  had  all  these  ended  ? In  the  lassitude  and  languor 
of  satiety,  in  the  nerveless  indifference  of  a polished  pessi- 
mist, in  the  evaporated  fumes  of  innumerable  pleasures 
quickly  tasted  and  exhausted. 

" At  least  I have  enjoyed,”  he,  thought.  " Could  Aubrey 
gay  as  much  ? ” 

But  though  his  philosophy  consoled,  his  conscience  did  not 
satisfy  him.  It  was  not  for  mere  self-indulgence  alone  that 
his  fathers  had  lived ; it  was  not  for  mere  self-abandonment 
that  his  country  had  been  made  what  it  once  had  been. 

Great  men  had,  indeed,  in  all  ages  been  lovers  of  pleasure, 
but  pleasure  had  been  their  pastime,  not  their  sole  pursuit. 
He  walked  to  and  fro  the  length  of  the  now  warm  and  illu- 
minated rooms,  and  his  surveys  of  his  past  brought  him  more 
dissatisfaction  than  contentment.  To  men  he  knew  that  he 
seemed  but  an  idler ; to  women,  perhaps,  he  seemed  a traitor. 

The  vision  of  his  wife,  alone  in  that  lonely  little  house, 
amongst  the  dense  sea-fogs  and  the  bare  black  orchards, 
haunted  him  with  pain;  and  the  memory  of  the  woman 
whom  he  loved,  as  he  had  left  her  in  the  splendor  of  her 
beauty,  and  of  the  golden  evening  sunlight  pouring  through 
her  painted  chamber,  haunted  him  with  that  irresistible  and 
unresisted  power  which  she  always  possessed  over  him.  In 
the  depression  of  his  solitary  musings  he  seemed  in  his  own 
sight  unworthy  of  either  of  them,  and  wholly  undeserving  of 
their  constancy  or  their  regret. 

With  the  morning  hours  of  the  following  day  he  rode  to- 
wards Christslea.  Before  he  slept  he  sent  for  the  old  house- 
keeper of  Ladysrood.  She  had  been  with  his  mother  on  her 
death-bed,  and  had  nursed  and  played  with  him  as  a child. 
He  could  ask  of  her  what  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  ask 
of  any  of  the  men. 

" Tell  me,  Margaret/’  he  said  to  her  as  soon  as  she  stood 
before  him  in  the  warm  red  drawing-room  where  John  Ver- 
non had  bade  his  daughter  live  for  hopor  if  she  could  not  live 
for  happiness — ■"tell  me,  do  you  ever  see  my  wife  ?" 

The  old  woman  was  silent  for  a while  ; the  tears  started  to 
her  eyes. 

" Alas,  my  dear  lord,  that  ever  you  should  have  to  ask  me 
that ! 99  she  murmured. 

"Never  mind  why  I ask  you;  answer  me.  Do  you  oftea 
see  her  or  ever  see  her  ? 99 


354 


GTJILBEROY. 


“ I have  s«en  her  very  rarely,  my  lord,  and  never  ro  speak 
to ; it  was  in  the  open  air,  and  my  lady  shunned  me.” 

“ How  does  she  look  ? 55 

“ She  looks  older,  hut  she  looks  well,  my  lord.  The  air  is 
very  fine  and  strong  at  Christslea.55 

Guilderov  felt  a sense  of  mortification,  for  which  he  hated 
himself. 

“ She  looks  well,  do  you  say  ? 55 

“Not  ill,  my  lord,  but  much  older.5/ 

“ You  must  hear  of  her  often  from  the  servants  or  the  vih  * 
lagers  ? 55 

“ There  is  little  to  hear,  my  lord.55 

“ You  mean  that  she  leads  such  a retired,  such  a secluded 
life  ?55 

“ That  is  so,  my  lord.  It  is  the  same  life  as  her  father  led  ; 
it  suited  him,  no  doubt,  but  it  cannot  suit  a childless  woman 
of  her  years.55 

Guilderoy  sighed  impatiently. 

“ It  was  her  own  choice.55 

The  housekeeper  was  silent ; she  respected  him  too  much 
to  contradict  him,  and  she  respected  truth  too  well  to  agree 
with  him. 

“ She  has  all  the  dogs,  they  say  ? 55  he  asked. 

“Yes,  my  lord;  she  was  ever  very  fond  of  the  tykes.55 

“ And  how  does  she  spend  her  time  ? 55 

“Reading,  they  say,  my  lord,  when  she  is  indoors;  and 
always  out  when  the  weather  holds,  and  ofttimes'even  when 
it  is  very  bad.55 

“ And  whom  does  she  see  ? 55 

“ No  one,  I believe,  my  lord.55 

“ Not  my  sister  ? 55 

“ Her  ladyship  has  never  been  nigh  her.55 

He  hesitated  a moment,  then  said : 

“ But  she  receives  visits  from  my  cousin  Aubrey,  I am 
sure  ? 55 

“Well,  my  lord,  he  is  the  only  one  of  his  family  who  has 
stood  by  her.55 

“ I am  grateful  to  him.55 

Nevertheless  his  face  flushed  with  an  emotion  which  was 
not  one  of  pleasure. 

“ Is  he  often  there  ? 55 

**  Often,  my  lord,  one  may  say,  for  one  who  is  ever  toiling 


QtTILDEROr.  355 

for  the  country  as  he  is,  and  has  so  little  time  left  to  him- 
self.” 

“ It  is  very  good  of  him.  You  may  go,  Margaret.  Good- 
night.” 

The  old  woman  curtsied,  and  withdrew  ; but  as  she  drew  near 
the  door  she  took  courage  and  came  a few  steps  back  towards 
him.  “My  dear  lord,  if  I may  make  so  bold,  my  lady  is  very 
young  to  be  left  in  that  lonely  life.  Maybe  she  chose  it,  but 
some  say  she  was  drove  to  it.  She  may  have  her  faults,  but 
she  has  more  virtues,  and — and — she  lost  her  two  children, 
my  lord.  Will  you  not  go  and  see  her  now  you  are  here,  if 
only  for  sake  of  that  one  memory,  my  lord  ? ” 

Guilderoy’s  eyes  grew  dim. 

“No,  no,  I cannot  do  that,”  he  said  hastily  and  sternly. 
“But  you  are  a good  woman  to  urge  it,  Margaret.  You  do 
not  offend  me.  Good-night.” 

“ Good-night  to  you,  my  lord.” 

The  door  closed  on  her,  and  he  was  alone  with  his  own 
thoughts,  which  were  painful  companions. 

He  had  an  intense  wish  to  see  Gladys  a wish  stronger  than 
his  anger  against  her.  But  all  that  remained  to  him  of  loyalty 
to  a woman  who  had  trusted  him  to  be  faithful  to  her  forbade 
him  such  double  duplicity.  The  words  “ Go,  you  have  honor,” 
were  ever  in  his  remembrance.  Any  interview  with  his  wife, 
any  effort  even  to  seek  one,  any  single  word  which  could  even 
distantly  foreshadow  the  faintest  reconc-iliation  with  her, 
were  forbidden  to  him  ; he  had  plainly  and  forever  renounced 
any  possibility  of  such  when  he  had  accepted  the  conditions 
on  which  the  woman  he  loved  had  again  become  his. 

To  have  accepted  them  only  to  break  them,  to  have  had  the 
fulness  of  her  faith  only  to  cheat  and  evade  it,  as  a man  can 
ever  do  if  he  wills,  would  have  seemed  to  him  something  so 
foul  that  he  would  have  not  borne  his  life  under  the  sense  of 
degradation  which  such  an  act  of  betrayal  would  have  left  on 
him.  His  honor  might  “rooted  in  dishonor  stand,”  but  it  was 
at  least  loyal  to  the  one  who  had  trusted  it.  Yet  a great  desire 
was  upon  him  to  see  his  wife ; the  remembrance  of  her  was 
upon  him  as  he  had  known  her  in  the  early  days  of  Christslea, 
and  that  remembrance  softened  his  heart  towards  her  and 
outweighed  the  heavy  and  bitter  memories  of  their  last  inter- 
view in  Naples.  The  night  passed  with  him  again  sleeplessly 
and  painfully. 

The  winds  were  high  and  swept  round  the  stately  and 


356 


GUILVEUOY. 


solid  house  with  gusts  of  fury ; the  stillness  between  them 
was  filled  with  the  sound  of  rushing  rains.  The  day  broke, 
with  no  rain  falling,  but  with  low  and  heavy  clouds.  At 
noon  he  rode  out  in  its  gloom,  and  through  his  woods 
towards  the  moors;  rode  fast  against  the  watery  cold  air, 
over  the  soaken  turf,  and  thinking  ever  as  he  went  of  the 
time  he  had  ridden  thus  to  seek  John  Yernon,  on  a mere  idle 
caprice  which  waywardness  and  imagination  had  raised  into 
a fancied  passion  for  one  fleeting  hour.  The  sky  was  low, 
the  sea  was  still,  the  earth  was  silent  as  he  went ; the  dull 
atmosphere  and  the  melancholy  solitude  oppressed  him  as 
with  some  sensation  of  physical  ill.  Through  the  mist  which 
hung  everywhere  over  the  water  and  the  land,  the  few  distant 
sails  on  the  sea,  the  few  forms  passing  on  the  moors  of  men 
or  cattle,  looked  unsubstantial  and  unreal.  To  him,  whose 
life  was  always  passed  in  movement  or  in  pleasure,  in  the 
gratification  either  of  the  senses  or  of  the  intelligence,  the 
winter  stillness  and  loneliness  of  the  country  and  the  shore 
had  a feeling  of  death  in  them. 

His  horse,  tired  with  the  wet  and  heavy  ground,  went 
slowly,  and  he  did  not  urge  it  to  more  speed ; he  rode  on, 
lost  in  his  own  thoughts,  taking,  almost  without  knowing  it, 
the  road  to  the  cottage  at  Christslea.  He  had  the  fullest  re- 
solve not  to  see  his  wife,  nor  to  allow  himself  to  be  seen  by 
her ; yet  with  an  unconscious  and  irresistible  impulsion  he 
took  his  way  towards  the  place  where  she  dwelt,  until  from 
the  level  turf  of  the  cliffs  above  the  house  he  looked  down  on 
its  thatched  roof,  its  peaked  gables,  its  thick  environment  of 
tangled  branches.  There  was  not  a sound  coming  from  it;  a 
little  smoke  hung  on  the  vaporous  air ; a few  pigeons  flew 
low  under  its  eaves  ; a holly-tree  stood  glowing  with  scarlet 
berries  tall  and  straight  against  the  sky.  To  him,  come  from 
the  vast  palaces  and  marble  terraces  and  sun-bathed  gardens 
of  the  south,  it  looked  almost  like  a hovel,  with  its  humble 
lowliness  and  modest  coloring  so  like  the  brown  earth  and 
the  gray  boughs  which  surrounded  it.  It  hurt  his  pride  to 
think  that  his  wife  should  live  there  in  penury  and  obscurity. 
She  bore  his  name,  she  was  the  mistress  of  his  houses,  she 
had  a right  to  his  riches  and  his  possessions  of  all  kinds,  and 
she  dwelt  here  in  less  comfort  and  less  stateliness  than  the 
wife  of  his  steward  enjoyed. 

And  all  his  world  knew  it,  and  any  one  of  his  friends,  who 


GU1LDKH0Y  357 

chose  could  come  a^d  see  the  poorness  and  lowliness  of 
her  lot. 

He  dismounted  and  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff  and  let 
his  horse  stray  as  it  would,  blown  and  heated,  cropping  the 
short  wet  turf  to  its  own  hurt. 

A vague  desire  to  <enter  the  house  and  ask  for  ner  and  see 
her  face  to  face  was  in  him.  But  he  would  have  been  per- 
jured and  degraded  had  he  yielded  to  it.  Far  away  in  the 
golden  light  of  the  Neapolitan  day  was  a woman  who  had  said 
to  him — “ You  have  honor  ! ” 

He  remembered  her,  and  to  her  at  least  was  faithful. 

On  the  table-land  of  the  cliff  near  at  hand  was  the  little 
barn-like  rustic  church  of  this  small  sea-parish,  and  around 
it  were  those  obscure  graves  of  which  John  Vernon’s  was 
one,  conspicuous  amongst  the  low-lying  headstones  by  the 
fair  column  of  white  marble  she  and  he  had  raised  there  to 
his  memory,  with  one  line  graven  on  it  in  the  language  he 
best  loved : 

Mori  est  felicis  antequam  mortem  invocat. 

He  looked  at  the  white  pillar  looming  faintly  through  the 
sea-fog,  and  had  he  been  a woman  he  could  have  wept. 

“ I was  false  to  him,  I was  false  to  him  ! ” he  thought ; 
and  his  heart  ached  with  the  futile-  pang  of  a regret  which 
cannot  reach  or  atone  to  the  dead. 

He  had  too  often  pardoned  to  himself  his  own  transgres- 
sions, too  often,  too  carelessly  excused  to  himself  errors  and 
follies  whieh  he  thought  lightly  of  because  they  were  welcome 
and  easy ; but  the  sense  of  his  own  disloyalty  he  could  not 
palliate  or  smooth  away  with  sophistry  ; he  deemed  it  a dis- 
honor and  he  hated  it.  For  the  first  time  in  all  his  years  he 
was  guilty  in  his  own  sight.  He  had  promised  what  he  had 
not  fulfilled  ; he  had  been  untrue  to  a man  who  could  no  more 
call  his  actions  to  account. 

As  he  stood  looking  down  on  the  russet  roof  and  the  tan- 
gled wood  in  the  shadowy  misty  winter’s  morning,  he  saw 
the  figure  of  a woman  leave  the  porch  and  pass  under  the 
branches  outward  towards  the  shore.  He  could  not  see  her 
face  from  his  position  so  far  above  her,  but  he  could  see  by 
her  figure,  by  her  bearing,  by  her  step,  that  the  housekeeper 
had  said  truly — she  was  in  perfect  health  and  strength. 

S 7*e  walked  quickly  and  firmly,  the  dogs  leaping  on  her 
and  inning  on  before  her.  She  wore  the  long  black  cloak  of 


GUILDEBOY. 


sm 

sables  in  which  he  had  seen  her  last  in  Naples.  For  some 
minutes  he  lost  her  from  view  under  the  trees  ; then  she 
appeared  again  on  the  strip  of  sandy  shore,  where  the  waves 
were  rolling  up  with  low  angry  murmur  as  though  exhausted 
by  the  fury  of  the  past  night.  Then  she  turned  from  the  sea, 
and  mounted  the  cliff  path  leading  to  the  churchyard.  He 
perceived  that  she  had  a basket  of  evergreens  and  snowdrops 
in  her  hand ; she  was  coming  no  doubt  on  her  daily  errand 
of  visiting  her  father’s  grave.  The  mist  was  lighter  now,  and, 
though  some  way  off  her,  he  saw  her  plainly,  as  she  mounted 
the  steep  path  cut  in  the  granite  of  the  cliff,  so  familiar  to  her 
from  her  childhood. 

“ What  a life  ! What  a life  ! he  thought.  “ What  a 
wretched  life  if  she  have  no  consolations  ! ” 

A violent  impulse  moved  him  to  demand  from  her  if  there 
were  any;  if  the  gossip  of  the  world  was  true  which  traced  to 
Aubrey’s  influence  her  choice  of  this  seclusion;  he  wished  to 
tell  her  that  he  would  be  the  last  to  blame  her  if  it  were  so, 
and  that  here,  within  sight  of  her  father’s  grave,  he  would 
ask  her  pardon  and  gave  her  his  ; so  at  least  there  might  be 
peace  between  them. 

And  yet,  as  he  watched  her  from  the  distance,  crossing  the 
grass  of  the  cliffs  with  that  elastic  step  which  he  had  so  often 
admired,  and  which  all  women  had  envied  her,  a more  sombre, 
and  more  ignoble  feeling  moved  him — a restless  jealousy  of 
past  possession,  a sense  that  the  dignity  of  his  name  was  in 
her  hands  and  that  she  could  play  with  it  as  she  chose,  and 
that  he  had  lost  the  right  to  blame  her,  whatever  she  might 
select  to  do  with  it. 

He  watched  her  pass  across  the  table- land  towards  the 
graveyard ; she  did  not  look  towards  him  ; she  went  straight 
on  to  the  wicket  of  the  burial-place,  opened  it,  and  passed 
within ; the  growth  of  rose-thorn  and  privet  and  holly  within 
its  low  walls  of  rubble  hid  her  entirely  from  him. 

He  hesitated  a moment;  a great,  almost  an  ungovernable 
wish  arose  in  him  to  go  there  and  to  say  to  her  by  her  father’s 
grave  all  the  truths  which  had  been  so  imperfectly  uttered  in 
the  haste  and  bitterness  of  their  last  interview. 

But  a thousand  miles  away  a woman  trusted  him  ! 

To  approach  his  wife,  were  it  even  only  to  say  to  her  an 
eternal  farewell,  would  be  to  be  a traitor  to  his  pledged  word. 

He  had  often  been  the  slave  of  his  passions,  the  fool  of  hi* 
fancy,  but  he  had  always  bien  the  servant  of  his  honor, 


GTJILDEROY. 


359 


One  ill  is  not  mended  by  another  he  knew  ; one  defalca- 
tion is  not  filled  np  by  another ; because  he  had  been  untrue 
to  the  dead  man  lying  there  was  no  reason  or  excuse  that  he 
should  be  untrue  to  the  living  woman  who  loved  him. 

He  had  voluntarily  renounced  his  right  to  seek  or  to  give 
explanations  from  and  to  his  wife.  It  was  one  of  those  priv- 
ileges of  intimacy  which  he  had  of  his  own  accord  consented 
to  abjure  forever. 

He  looked  once  more  at  the  dusky  foliage  of  the  church- 
yard with  the  slender  white  column  rising  into  the  gray  air, 
and  with  a sigh  he  drew  his  horse’s  bridle  towards  him,  and 
led  the  beast  down  the  precipitous  and  broken  path  which 
turned  away  from  Christslea. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

With  evening  he  had  left  his  own  house,  having  learned 
nothing  more  than  he  had  known  before,  but  carrying  with 
him  in  his  soul  the  thorns  of  a restless  disquietude,  and  of  an 
impotent  regret. 

He  reached  London  in  the  morning  and  went  straight  to 
Balfrons  House.  Parliament  had  met  and  Aubrey  was  in 
town.  There  was  a heavy  rain  falling,  and  the  air  was  full 
of  ice  and  sleet.  The  streets  at  that  early  hour  were  de- 
serted. The  city  seemed  a vast,  colorless,  smoking  city  of 
the  dead. 

Aubrey  had  risen  with  the  day,  after  an  hour  or  two’s  rest 
after  a prolonged  debate.  He  was  in  his  study,  walking  up 
and  down  the  room  and  dictating  to  his  secretaries  before  he 
broke  his  fast.  The  yellow  and  sickly  air  poured  through 
the  chamber,  dark  with  bookshelves  and  bronzes  and  tables 
laden  and  littered  with  documents  of  all  kinds. 

When  he  saw  his  cousin  enter  he  paused  in  the  dictatior 
of  his  letters  and  stood  still,  without  any  word  of  gesture  or 
greeting. 

“ Can  I see  you  alone  for  a moment  ? ” asked  Guilderoy  as 
he  entered. 

Aubrey  motioned  to  the  young  men  to  leave  them  ; they 
passed  into  the  large  library  beyond  and  closed  the  door. 

Aubrey  still  spoke  no  word.  He  stood  erect,  the  habitual 
stoop  in  his  great  height  changed  to  a stateliness  that  was 


860 


GUILDEROY. 


almost  stiffness.  He  never  held  out  his  hand  or  said  any 
syllable  of  greeting  or  of  inquiry,  his  features  were  cold  and 
stern. 

Guilderoy  heeded  neither  his  attitude  nor  his  expression. 

Twelve  months  and  more  had  passed  by  since  they  had 
met  at  Venice  and  had  parted  with  unuttered  but  mutual 
hostility  and  offence.  The  knowledge  which  he  had  of 
Aubrey’s  certain  scorn  and  condemnation  of  him  gave  to  him 
an  hauteur  and  an  impervious  impatience  which  seemed  tq 
his  cousin  mere  arrogance,  and  unbecoming,  insolent,  and 
out  of  place. 

Guilderoy  was  very  pale,  and  his  eyes  looked  sleepless,  but 
he  had  the  manner  and  the  courage  of  a man  who  arraign* 
another  for  wrong  done  to  him,  and  is  very  far  from  all  com 
fession  of  error  in  himself. 

“I  am  about  to  put  to  you  a question  which  no  man  am 
swers,”  he  said  rapidly,  and  without  preface  or  explanation 
of  his  appearance  there.  “ At  least,  no  man  answers  in  th* 
affirmative.  But  whether  affirmative  or  denial  be  in  youi 
case  the  truth,  I expect  the  truth  from  you,  having  regard 
to  the  blood  relationship  between  us  and  the  position  in  which 
we  have  always  stood  to  one  another. 

Aubrey  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes. 

“ What  is  your  question  ? ” he  asked  in  his  coldest  voice  | 
a passing  expression  of  ineffable  disdain  came  over  his  feat* 
ures  as  he  spoke. 

" It  is  a very  simple  one,”  said  Guilderoy.  “ Are  you,  a* 
the  world  says,  my  wife’s  lover  ? ” 

Aubrey’s  eyes  met  his  fully. 

“ I certainly  need  not  answer,”  he  replied  with  a grav$ 
rebuke  and  scorn  in  his  voice  and  in  his  gaze.  “ You  hav* 
lost  all  title  to  put  such  a question.” 

“ I have  not  lost  the  right,  since  she  bears  my  name.” 

u You  have  lost  it  morally,  not  legally.  You  could  not  be 
go  ungenerous  as  to  refuse  a liberty  which  you  take.” 

Guilderoy’s  face  flushed  hotly. 

“ If  you  prevaricate,  I shall  consider  prevarication  admist 
sion.” 

Aubrey  smiled  slightly  ; a very  cold  contemptuous  smile. 

“ It  is  not  my  habit  to  prevaricate.  I will  answer  youv 
question,  though  I shall  refuse  to  admit  your  title  to  put  k 
to  me.  I am  not  your  wife’s  lover,  and  if  you  had  the  slight 


( WILDEHOY . ,‘!Gi 

/ 

stfi  knowledge  of  your  wife’s  character  you  would  not  come 
to  me  on  such  an  errand.” 

Guilderoy  was  silent;  he  did  not  doubt  the  truth  of  the 
speaker  ; the  whole  country  would  have  taken  Aubrey’s  word 
unwitnessed  against  that  of  all  other  men  $ but  he  was  dis- 
satisfied. 

“ If  you  deny  that  you  are  her  lover/’  he  said  after  long 
silence,  “ you  cannot  deny  that  you  have  for  her  a feeling 
Arhich  is  far  beyond  friendship,  that  you  visit  her  in  her  soli- 
tude, that  your  assiduous  attentions  to  her  are  matter  of 
notoriety.” 

“ Am  I bound  to  account  to  you  for  feelings  unuttered  to 
any  human  ear  ? Am  I bound  to  respect  for  you  ties  which 
you  have  yourself  strained  to  rupture  ? By  what  title  do 
you  come  here  ? You  have  forsaken  your  wife  utterly.  You 
have  told  me  that  she  was  wearisome,  unsympathetic,  indif- 
ferent to  you.  What  is  it  to  you  what  I feel  for  her,  or  what 
I do  not  feel  ? I deny  your  right  to  attempt  to  penetrate 
my  feelings,  or  to  arraign  my  acts.” 

He  spoke  with  a force  which  was  almost  violence,  and  with 
a scorn  which  penetrated  the  very  innermost  fibres  of  his 
hearer’s  nerves. 

“ In  every  syllable  of  your  answer  you  confess  what  you 
feel  ! ” he  said  with  equal  violence.  u I may  have  no  title  to 
command  my  wife's  affections  ; I never  possessed  them  ; but 
she  is  the  holder  of  my  name,  and  my  name  is  dear  to  me, 
and  no  man  shall  play  with  it  without  being  compelled  to 
atone  to  me.” 

Aubrey  looked  at  him  with  unspeakable  disdain. 

“ What  would  you  do  ? What  could  you  do  ? A man 
who  has  abandoned  his  wife  cannot  challenge  either  her  en- 
emies or  her  lovers  ; he  is  nothing  in  her  life.  If  I were  to 
her  what  you  suppose,  what  could  you  say  to  me  in  common 
decency  or  justice  ? I should  but  have  filled  up  the  place 
you  left  vacant.  I should  but  have  soothed  the  wounds 
which  you  caused.  You  would  have  no  shadow  of  title  to 
arraign  me  for  it.  Even  the  world  itself  would  prefer  my 
errors  to  yours  ; would  admit  that  you  had  but  the  payment 
you  merited.” 

(t  I care  neither  what  the  world  would  say  nor  what  you 
would  think,”  said  Guilderoy,  now  white  with  passion.  “ I 
care  for  the  honor  of  my  name,  and  I should  not  pause  either 
for  your  relationship  to  me  or  for  the  admirable  lucidity  of 


362 


GUILDEROY. 


your  reasonings  if  I believed  that  you  had-  done  me  any 
wrong  which  would  make  me  absurd  and  degraded  before 
other  men.” 

Aubrey  smiled  ; the  same  slight,  contemptuous,  fleeting 
smile,  which  stung  Guilderoy  like  the  stroke  of  a whip — • 
stung  him  in  his  pride,  his  sensitiveness,  and  his  conscience 
all  at  once. 

66  You  would  make  a scandal  ? ” said  Aubrey  coldly.  “ You 
would  do  unwisely.  Men  whose  names  are  before  the  world 
should  keep  them  clean  and  hold  them  high.  We  might 
agree  to  kill  each  other  en  cachette , but  if  we  called  the  pub- 
lic in  to  witness  our  quarrel  we  should  be  worse  than  fools. 
We  are  not  playing  a melodrama  of  elective  affinities;  we 
are  living  out  our  lives  before  a world  which  hates  us,  and  is 
every  hour  of  its  day  gaping  at  us  to  find  a chink  in  our  har- 
ness or  a stain  in  our  shields.  You  must  gratify  it  if  you 
will.  I shall  not  aid  you.  I am  not  the  lover  of  your  wife. 
I have  never  spoken  any  word  to  her  that  you  would  not 
have  been  free  to  hear.  J have  stood  by  her,  certainly, 
under  the  unmerited  neglect  and  obloquy  which  have  fallen 
on  her  through  you.  I should  so  stand  by  any  innocent 
woman  whose  friend  I once  had  been.  And  so  much  I 
admit  to  you  not  for  my  own  sake  or  yours,  nor  yet  because 
I in  any  way  admit  your  rights  or  am  moved  by  your  men- 
aces, but  because  such  a declaration  is  due  to  her — since  it  is 
the  truth,  so  help  me  God  ! ” 

There  was  a tone  in  the  last  solemn  words  which  stilled 
the  fury  and  awed  the  soul  of  his  hearer.  Guilderoy  doubted 
no  more. 

“ I believe  you,”  he  said,  briefly.  “ The  whole  nation 
would  believe  your  bare  word.  I wish  to  Heaven,”  he  added 
with  emotion,  C(  that  she  had  been  yours,  not  mine  ; we 
should  all  have  been  far  happier  than  we  are.” 

“ Suoh  regrets  are  useless,”  said  Aubrey.  u The  greatest 
burden  of  man’s  life  has  been  created  by  man,  and  it  is  called 
the  holy  state  of  marriage.  But — this  I must  say  to  you  too 
—if  you  imagine  that  she  cares  for  me  you  are  m great 
error.  She  cares  for  you  alone.  You  may  bruise  her  heart 
as  you  choose  ; your  name  is  still  the  only  one  written 
on  it.” 

66  Do  not  tell  me  so,”  said  Guilderoy  hastily  and  with  pain 
* It  can  make  no  difference  now.” 

« 1 have  told  you  so  because  it  is  so,” 


GUIL  DEBOY. 


363 


“ That  maj  be.  It  can  make  no  difference  in  me.” 

Aubrey  was  silent. 

“ You  intend  always  to  live  as  you  are  living  now  ? ” 

“I  must  in  honor.” 

“And  you  leave  her  virtually  widowed  at  twenty-two  years 
*f  age,  and  you  exact  her  fidelity  ? ” 

“I  exact  nothing.  And  I beg  to  apologize  to  you  for  the 
time  which  I have  wasted  for  you  in  a demand  which,  as 
I have  expressed  my  belief,  was  founded  on  unjust  sus- 
picions.” 

He  lingered  a moment,  waiting  for  some  expression  in  re- 
turn from  Aubrey  ; some  farewell,  some  acknowledgment  of 
his  last  words.  But  Aubrey  remained  standing  where  he 
was  and  said  nothing.  He  did  not  offer  his  hand  ; his 
features  were  very  cold,  his  expression  almost  harsh.  He 
allowed  his  cousin  to  leave  him  without  any  word  or  gesture 
of  valediction. 

Guilderoy  bowed  to  him  in  silence  and  quitted  the 
room. 

“ If  I did  not  belong  to  my  family  and  my  country  I 
should  kill  him  before  he  reaches  the  street,”  thought 
Aubrey  when  the  door  closed,  as  the  fire  ran  through  his 
veins  of  that  old  barbaric  passion  which  sleeps  in  the  blood 
of  all  men  of  high  courage  and  strong  feeling. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

In  the  following  week,  his  cousin  stood  on  the  cliff  above 
Christslea,  he  having  responded  to  a wistful  message  asking 
for  his  return  there. 

“ Why  have  you  sent  for  me  ? ” he  asked  her. 

“ Why  do  you  never  come*  to  me  unless  I send  ?” 

He  looked  away  from  her. 

“ Why  ? ” she  persisted.  “You  used  to  come  and  see  me 
«o  very  often.” 

Aubrey  hesitated. 

“The  world  is  suspicious,  my  dear,”  he  said  at  last ; “and 
you  are  very  young,  and,  though  you  always  seem  to  forget 
it,  a beautiful  woman.  I do  not  wish  them  to  say  evil  things 
of  you.” 

She  colored  violently. 


364 


GTTILI>EBO\ 


‘s  They  would  never  dare  to  say  of  us 99 

“ I fear  they  do,  dear/' 

She  was  silent ; her  face  was  very  flushed  and  pained. 

“ How  evil  the  world  is  ! ” she  murmured.  “ But  let 
them  say  what  they  will.  It  does  not  matter.  We 
know ” 

“ It  matters  for  you.” 

He  moved  uneasily  ; his  posit  on  towards  her  became 
every  day  of  his  life  more  embarrassing  to  him,  more 
strained,  more  difficult.  The  very  frankness  and  per- 
fectness of  her  confidence  in  him  *vas  an  added  embarrass- 
ment the  more. 

It  seemed  brutal  to  rob  her  of  her  only  solace,  to  sug- 
gest misconstruction  to  so  much  innocence  and  courage, 
to  place  between  himself  and  her  the  constraint  which 
such  a warning  must  of  necessity  create. 

She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  unconsciously  plucking 
the  little  flowerets  of  wild  thyme  which  grew  so  thickly 
there.  He  stood  beside  her  and  looked  down  on  her. 

“ Gladys,”  he  said  abruptly,  “ my  cousin  came  to  me  a 
few  days  ago.” 

Her  face  lost  its  warmth  and  grew  very  cold. 

“ I heard  that  he  had  been  a night  at  Ladysrood,”  she 
answered. 

“ Yes.  He  did  not  approach  you  ? ” 

“ Can  you  think  that  he  would  dare  ? ” 

“ You  forget,  he  has  still  the  right.” 

“ He  has  no  moral  right ; no  right  on  earth  that  I ac- 
knowledge.” 

“You  are  too  harsh,  my  dear.  His  rights  always  exist; 
and,  whether  you  will  hear  it  or  not,  I must  say  to  you  that 
I believe  his  feelings  for  you  are  not  wholly  dead,  as  you 
think.” 

She  cast  the  gathered  thyme  upon  the  ground  and  rose  to 
her  feet. 

“I  care  nothing  what  they  are  or  are  not.  His  life  is 
dead  to  mine.” 

“ Is  that  how  your  father  wTould  have  had  you  speak  ? ” 

“ My  father  was  a good  and  wise  man,  but  he  knew  noth- 
ing of  a woman’s  heart.” 

“Perhaps  he  knew  so  much  that  he  believed  its  forgive- 
ness inexhaustible  and  its  patience  divine — as  they  should 
be.” 


GTJILDEBOY. 


365 


She  was  silent.  She  stood  looking  out  to  th©  gray  wind- 
blown sea.  Her  eyes  were  cold  and  had  no  relenting  in 
them,  her  face  had  grown  pale. 

“Some  women  may  be  made  like  that,”  she  said  at  last. 
“ I am  not.  He  has  made  his  life  without  me.  I have  made 
mine  without  him.  That  is  all.  Why  talk  of  it  ? ” 

“ How  have  you  made  your  life  ? Child  that  you  are,  do 
you  mean  that  you  can  live  all  your  lonely  years  like  this — ■ 
always  like  this,  until  old  age  comes  to  you  ? ” 

“Women  live  so  in  convents.  Why  not  I ?” 

“Women  in  convents  live  unnatnral  lives,  as  from  mis- 
taken motives  you  are  doing.  Every  life  without  the  nat- 
ural indulgence  of  its  sentiments  and  affections  is  restricted, 
barren,  and  unblessed.” 

She  was  again  silent ; her  eyes  watching  afar  off  a fishing- 
boat  tossing  in  the  deep  trough  of  the  waves. 

“ Why  do  you  say  these  things  to  me  ? ” she  asked  at  last. 
“Surely  when  one  is  left  alone,  there  are  more  dignity  and 
decency  in  passive  acquiescence  in  one’s  fate  than  in  any 
noisy  revolt  against  it. 

“ Yes : but  if  he  returned  to  you  ? Would  your  pride 
stand  in  the  way  of  reconciliation  ? ” 

“ Has  he  told  you  to  ask  me  that  ? ” 

“Ho  ; he  said  nothing  which  would  even  suggest  it.  But 
it  was  clear  to  me  that  he  regretted  his  own  actions,  and  re- 
gret is  always  near  repentanee.” 

“ He  will  never  feel  repentance,  not  even  any  very  real 
regret.  He  may  feel  inconvenience,  irritation,  anxiety  for 
the  world’s  opinion — caprice,  fatigue,  satiety — nothing  more.” 
“ I begin  to  think  that  you  have  never  loved  him, 
Gladys.” 

“ Perhaps  not.” 

He  looked  at  her,  troubled  and  perplexed  by  her  tone,  see- 
ing no  way  into  her  real  meaning,  wondering  at  her  strength 
in  keeping  the  secret  of  her  own  feelings  so  closely  in  such 
long  solitude. 

“ There  is  no  love,”  he  said  almost  harshly,  “ where  there 
is  any  consideration  of  self.  There  may  be  desire, . pride, 
pique,  egotism  ; but  there  is  no  love.  I have  told  you  so 
many  times.  I should  wish  your  own  heart  to  tell  it  you 
without  me.” 

“Are  all  feeling,  all  sacrifice,  all  pain,  then,  to  be  on  one 
side  alone?”  r 9 


GUILDEEOY. 


“A  great  love  never  asks  that  question,  my  dear.  It 
gives  all  it  has  to  give  unweighed.” 

Something  in  his  voice  as  he  spoke,  something  in  his  ex- 
pression as  he  looked  down  on  her,  went  to  her  heart  with  a 
sudden  sense  of  what  his  feeling  was  for  her.  She  had 
never  thought  of  it  before ; she  had  taken  all  his  faithful 
and  tender  friendship  as  created  rather  by  his  position 
towards  Guilderoy  than  by  any  personal  devotion  to  herself. 
She  had  been  engrossed  in  that  absorbing  selfishness  which 
great  suffering  creates,  and  she  had  passed  over  unnoticed  a 
thousand  things  which  might  have  told  her  what  he  felt  had 
not  her  whole  thoughts  and  her  whole  emotions  been  given 
to  the  tragedy  of  her  own  fate.  Now  some  vague  percep- 
tion of  the  truth  came  to  her,  although  he  had  so  loyally 
concealed  it.  Some  sudden  sense  of  all  which  he  had  done 
for  her,  all  which  he  wasted  on  her,  all  which  he  restrained 
and  denied  for  her  sake,  came  upon  her  with  a mute,  ineffa- 
ble reproach.  How  selfish  she  had  been,  and  how  ungener- 
ous, before  this  immense  and  unuttered  devotion ! She 
dropped  her  head  upon  her  hands  and  burst  into  a passion 
of  tears. 

“ Forgive  me,  forgive  me  ! ” she  murmured,  weeping,  not 
knowing  what  she  said. 

“ I have  nothing  to  forgive,  dear,”  he  said,  surprised  and 
touched  to  the  quick.  “I  want  you  to  forgive,  because  I 
know  that  unless  you  do  so  no  peace  will  ever  come  to  you.” 

He  waited  a moment,  but  she  made  no  reply. 

“ I must  go  now,”  he  said,  “or  I shall  not  be  able  to  be  in 
London  to-night.  Will  you  think  of  what  I have  said  ? The 
day  will  come  when  you  will  have  occasion  to  think  of  it. 
And,  my  dear,  do  not  deem  me  unkind  if  I cease  my  visits 
to  you.  They  are  ill-judged  by  the  world,  and  they  displease 
my  cousin.  Of  course,  if  you  ever  need  me  greatly  I will 
come  ; but  not  habitually,  familiarly,  as  I have  come  of 
late.” 

Her  face  changed  and  her  brows  contracted  almost  sul- 
lenly. 

“You  will  sacrifice  me  to  him?” 

“ No.  But  I will  not  sacrifice  you  to  the  evil  construe* 
tion  of  either  your  husband  or  the  world.” 

“ I thought  you  had  more  courage.” 

Aubrey  smiled  sadly. 

"It  is  not  courage  which  is  wanting  to  me,  my  chili 


GUILDEnOT. 


set 


Perhaps  some  day  you  will  understand  my  motives,  if  you  do 
not  now.  Meantime,  do  not  misjudge  me  nor  doubt  my  sin- 
cere regard  for  all  your  truest  interests/’ 

The  words  seemed  very  cold  to  her  and  conventional. 

She  was  very  young  still,  and  she  longed  for  tenderness^ 
for  indulgence,  for  an  affection  which  should  let  her  lean  her 
aching  life  upon  it  and  there  find  rest. 

When  he  went  from  her  in  the  dusky,  windy,  cloudy  day 
the  sense  of  an  immense  loss  came  over  her ; the  solitude  of 
her  life  closed  in  on  her ; and  she  saw  night  descend  with 
terror  of  its  sleepless  hours. 


CHAPTER  LYI. 

Oisr  that  same  day  Guilderoy  saw  once  more  the  smiling 
sunshine,  the  green  gardens  and  orange  woods,  the  stately 
marble  halls  of  the  Soria  Palace.  It  was  late  in  the  after- 
noon when  he  reached  Naples.  A glorious  sunset  was  burn- 
ing in  the  west.  Innumerable  sails  covered  the  sea.  The 
zenith  was  a deep  transient  blue,  the  air  clear  and  buoyant, 
with  gayety  and  healing  in  its  breezes.  The  streets  were 
mirthful  with  the  sports  of  early  Carnival,  and  the  shouts 
and  songs  and  clang  of  brazen  music  came  softened  to  the  ear, 
as  he  sat  once  more  in  the  little  cabinet  of  the  Albani  and 
looked  towards  the  bay  through  the  marble  arches  of  the 
loggia  beyond. 

Whether  from  pride,  magnanimity,  or  forbearance  (he 
knew  not  which)  Beatrice  Soria  had  asked  him  no  questions. 

“ You  have  soon  returned,”  she  said  to  him  simply,  when 
he  first  came  to  her ; and  she  had  made  no  after  allusion  to 
his  absence  or  its  causes.  She  knew  well  that  if  he  had 
broken  his  word  to  her  he  would  not  have  so  returned,  nay, 
would  never  have  dared  to  meet  her  eyes  again. 

He  longed  to  tell  her  all  that  he  had  felt ; the  sweetest 
charm  of  love  is  the  power  and  privilege  of  laying  bare  the 
soul  in  all  its  inconsistencies  and  follies  ; but  this  pleasure 
was  refused  to  him  by  his  own  action  in  the  past.  Where  he 
had  been  once  faithless  to  her  before,  delicacy  made  it  impos- 
sible for  him  to  say  one  word  which  should  seem  to  hint  at 
any  regret  or  any  change  for  or  in  his  present  faith  to  her. 
That  first  disloyalty  was  always  there  as  a spectre  between 


368 


GUILLEROY. 


them.  It  would  be  impossible  to  show  her  all  the  conflicting 
emotions  which  had  swayed  him  by  turns  during  his  brief 
visit  to  England.  He  would  have  been  glad  to  do  so  ; he 
felt  something  of  the  pathetic  human  instinct  to  confide  in 
some  one  he  loved  the  doubts  and  the  self-reproaches  which 
tormented  him,  and  so  in  a manner  be  free  of  their  burden  of 
* perplexity.  But  this  he  dared  not  do.  Under  the  circum- 
stances of  their  late  reunion,  any  such  confidence  must  inevit- 
ably have  appeared  to  be  either  a hint  of  desired  freedom  or 
a confession  of  futile  regret ; either  would  be  an  insult  to  her. 
He  felt  that  even  any  shadow  which  came  over  his  face,  any 
momentary  mood  of  abstracted  thought  or  of  visible  depres- 
sion, must  seem  a tacit  admission  that  he  regretted  the  price 
which  he  had  paid  for  the  past  year  of  happiness  beside  her. 
He  knew  that  he  had  once  seemed  to  her  the  forsworn, 
cowardly,  and  treacherous  slave  of  his  own  caprices : he  dared 
risk  nothing  which  could  by  any  kind  of  possibility  place  him 
in  such  a light  to  her  agaiu.  What  could  such  a woman  as 
she  was  think  of  him  if  she  ever  felt  that,  even  in  the  full 
blessing  and  glory  of  her  love,  he  could  fret  at  and  begrudge 
the  cost  which  it  had  been  to  him  ? He  respected  the 
stonger  courage  of  her  nature,  he  even  respected  her  for  the 
scorn  which  now  and  then  flashed  out  from  her  upon  himself 
and  he  felt  both  reverence  and  gratitude  for  the  faithful  and 
fervent  passion  which  she  had  spent  and,  in  so  much  wasted, 
upon  his  life.  Nothing  can  be  more  untrue  than  that  in  such 
relations  as  theirs  reverence  is  impossible ; reverence  is 
excited  by  character,  not  by  situation,  and  he  had  learned  to 
appreciate  her  nature  as  he  had  never  done  in  earlier  days. 
The  very  completeness  and  sincerity  of  the  proof  which  she 
had  demanded  from  him  had  showed  a force  in  her  before 
which  he  felt  himself  wavering,  weak,  almost  worthless  of  a 
single  thought  of  hers. 

He  did  his  uttermost  to  conceal  the  depression  which 
weighed  upon  him ; the  distress  with  which  he  was  haunted 
when  he  thought  of  that  little  house  in  the  gloom  and  silence 
of  the  lone  sea-shore;  the  anger  and  impatient  shame  with 
which  the  reeollection  of  Aubrey’s  words  of  scorn  moved  him 
whenever  they  recurred  to  him. 

He  knew — he  felt,  that  one  living  man  despised  him ; and 
that  man  the  one  whom  of  all  others  he  the  most  esteemed 
himself,  the  most  admired.  He  had  always  been  irritably 
conscious  of  the  greatness  of  Aubrey’s  life  as  contrasted  with 


GUILDEttOT. 


369 


the  frivolity  and  self  indulgence  of  his  own.  It  was  an  un- 
endurable humiliation  to  him  to  be  conscious  that  he  had 
made  it  possible  for  his  cousin  to  address  to  him  those  scath- 
ing words  which  pursued  him  in  memory  as  though  they 
were  the  very  voices  of  pursuing  ghosts. 

And  although  he  had  received  and  had  accepted  his  cous- 
in’s statement  of  his  relations  with  his  wife,  and  did  honestly 
in  his  soul  believe  them,  yet  it  made  him  restless  and  un- 
happy to  know  that  their  intimacy,  however  harmless,  was 
familiar  and  unwitnessed,  that  even,  though  only  her  friend, 
Aubrey,  was  still  her  only  friend  and  her  most  loyal  servant. 
It  offended,  it  wounded,  it  tormented  him  ; and  all  his  efforts 
could  not  conceal  from  the  penetration  of  Beatrice  Soria  that 
the  lassitude  and  dissatisfaction  which  she  had  observed  in 
him  when  in  her  villa  on  the  Brenta  in  the  past  autumn  had 
increased  greatly  since  his  brief  absence,  and  were  rendered 
even  the  more  visible  by  the  endeavors  which  he  made  to 
hide  them  under  the  over-affectation  of  carelessness  or  the 
over-protestation  of  devotion.  She  had  the  intuition  and  the 
penetration  which  are  alone  possible  to  a woman  who  is  too 
learned  in  love  to  be  the  servant  of  it,  and  too  sure  of  her 
power  ever  to  be  vain  with  petty  vanities  ; she  saw  in  him 
the  reflection  of  that  vague  disappointment  which  had  haunted 
her  in  her  meditations  amongst  the  autumn  beauty  of  her 
gardens  in  the  Yeneto  ; she  realized  that  he,  too,  like  herself, 
though  later  than  she  had,  failed  to  find  the  same  wonder- 
flower  which  they  had  found  and  gathered  together  in  other 
years.  She  was  generous,  she  was  proud  to  arrogance,  and 
she  knew  human  character  with  a knowledge  that  made  her 
at  once  disdainful  and  impatient  of  it.  She  had  had  her  own 
way  ; she  had  ruled  him  as  she  chose  ; she  had  exacted  and 
enjoyed  her  just  vengeance  to  the  uttermost  iota  ; what  more 
could  the  future  bring  her  ? And  beside  this  likewise  there 
was  in  her  the  generous  scorn  of  a patrician  temper  to  hold 
by  obligation  what  had  fled  already  in  will,  to  enforce  a bond 
from  which  the  soul  has  already  gone.  There  was  much 
arrogance  in  her,  and  there  had  been  some  cruelty,  but  there 
was  more  magnanimity  than  there  was  either. 

She  said  nothing  to  him,  but  she  watched  him  in  the  weeks 
which  followed  on  his  return  ; and  she  read  his  mind  as 
though  it  had  been  opened  before  her  like  a book.  She  felt 
with  a pang  that  what  she  read  there  mattered  but  little  to 
her  ; a year  before  his  emotions  had  been  her  world,  now  its 


370 


GZTILDEROY. 


seemed  of  small  account  that  they  should  wander  from  her. 
What  joy  would  there  be  in  slowly-dying  illusion,  in  slowly- 
fading  rapture,  in  slowly-chilling  passion  ? What  triumph 
would  there  be  in  watching  the  sure,  if  gradual,  change  of 
ecstasy  into  monotony,  of  gratitude  into  tedium,  of  fervor 
into  habit  ? She  knew  the  truth  of  the  Greek  counsel, 
“ Break  off  the  laurel  bough  whilst  it  is  yet  green  and  burn 
it.  Wait  not  until  it  withers.”  She  was  an  Epicureaki,  and 
carried  into  the  passions  of  her  life  at  once  the  fires  of  the 
senses  and  the  coldness  of  philosophy.  When  she  had  loved 
him  first  she  had  been  all  fire  ; now  her  wisdom  was  greater 
than  her  love  ; now  she  could  bear  to  put  her  heart  under 
the  spectrum  and  watch  its  pulses  change  from  fast  to 
slow. 

The  months  of  Carnival  follies  passed,  and  the  spring 
equinox  blew  upon  the  spathes  of  the  narcissi  and  called  up 
the  golden  sceptres  of  the  asphodel  in  all  the  southern 
pastures.  One  night  they  strolled  together  along  the  white 
terrace  which  overhung  the  sea,  as  they  had  done  a thousand 
times  in  the  year  just  passed  and  in  the  other  years  of  a 
still  more  gracious  time.  The  full  moon  was  shining,  the 
murmur  of  the  waves  was  audible,  the  air  was  heavy  with 
the  scent  of  lemon -flowers  from  the  gardens  beyond.  It  was 
Italy — luminous,  fragrant,  amorous  ; yet  amidst  it  all  he 
sighed.  The  sigh  was  unconscious,  but  it  was  eloquent.  She 
paused  and  looked  at  him.  A slight  smile  came  on  her 
mouth,  half  of  pity,  half  of  scorn. 

“ If  you  are  not  happy,”  she  said  slowly,  “ remember — I 
am  not  your  jailer.  Say  so,  and  go  ! ” 

He  started  violently,  ashamed  and  bewildered,  and 
ignorant  of  what  he  had  betrayed. 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? ” he  asked.  “ Happy  ? — you  have 
given  me  a happiness  of  which  one  needs  to  be  god,  not  man, 
to  be  worthy  ! ” 

“ Yes,  you  have  been  happy,”  she  said  thoughtfully.  u It 
is  something.  Well,  go  whilst  you  still  are  grateful  for  ft,” 

“Go  ? Go  where?” 

“ Go  to  your  wife.” 

Even  by  the  moonlight  she  saw  how  white  his  face 
grew  as  he  heard  her;  he  was  paralyzed  with  fear  and 
wonder. 

“ Why  do  you  insult  me  ? ” he  muttered ; you  have  ray 
word.” 


GUILDEROY. 


371 


“Yes,  I have  had  your  word/’  she  said  with  disdain,  but 
with  no  anger.  “ What  is  a corpse  worth  when  its  soul  has 
fled  ? ” 

“ You  cannot  think ” 

“I  think  you  are  like  all  men.  Once  I thought  that  you 
were  unlike  them.  But  that  is  long  ago!  ” 

He  winced  under  the  words  as  though  she  had  struck 

him. 

“ Is  it  dead  in  you  ? ” he  cried  with  the  passion  of  despair. 
“ Can  no  love  live  ? ” 

“ I know  not,”  she  said  wearily.  “ Perhaps  not ; who  can 
tell  ? ” 

“I  can  tell.  I love  you  forever.” 

“ In  a sense  you  do — yes.” 

She  sat  down  on  one  of  the  marble  chairs  of  the  terrace ; 
the  seat  was  shaped  like  Attila’s  chair,  and  was  covered 
with  a lion’s  skin.  She  looked  like  some  great  queen  come 
to  pass  judgment;  the  silvery  tissues  and  silvery  fur  of  her 
cloak  gleamed  in  the  moonbeams,  the  diamonds  which  were 
round  her  throat  shone,  her  eyes  were  full  of  light  and  heavy 
with  tears. 

“My  dear,  do  not  let  us  part  in  any  anger,”  she  said 
calmly.  “ Anger  is  so  base  in  those  who  have  been  lovers. 
Once  I was  angry  often,  and  to  fury  even.  I would  that 
that  time  were  here  still  in  all  its  madness,  in  all  its  abase- 
ment. But  it  is  dead.  You  have  been  happier  than  I in 
our  reunion.  I was  haunted  by  the  past,  which  you  forgot. 
I wanted  what  I could  not  have — my  youth.  You  had  be- 
longed to  my  jmuth,,  and  my  mind  had  outgrown  you,  though 
I knew  it  not.  Hay,  I mean  nothing  unkind.  We  change 
in  body  and  mind.  Ho  passion,  once  broken,  will  ever  bear 
renewal.” 

She  sighed  heavily.  He  was  silent ; he  was  deeply  and 
cruelly  humiliated,  and  yet  he  knew  that  she  had  spoken  the 
truth  of  herself,  if  not  of  him. 

“ Go  to  your  wife,”  she  repeated.  “ I am  sure  that  you 
have  seen  her,  though  I am  equally  sure  that  you  have  not 
spoken  with  her,  for  you  would  never  have  dared  to  return 
to  me  if  you  had.  You  do  not  care  for  her ; you  will  never 
care  for  her.  But  she  embodies  to  you  peace  of  mind,  social 
repute,  and  personal  dignity.  You  attach  weight  to  the 
opinion  of  the  world.  You  are  wretched  if  men  speak  ill  of 
you.  With  that  character  neither  man  nor  woman  should 


372 


GUILBEEOY . 


ever  brave  the  world.  They  should  leave  that  temerity  to 
those  who  have  both  a great  passion  and  a great  courageu 
They  alone  can  do  it  and  never  repent.  You  repent — now — 
every  hour  of  your  life.” 

“ You  are  cruelly  unjust!  Never  once  have  I said  or 
thought  or  felt  anything  but  the  very  deepest  gratitude  to 
you.” 

“ In  a sense,  no.  I am  not  denying  that  you  love  me  still. 
I say  that,  having  the  temperament  you  possess,  you  cannot 
be  content  without  the  world’s  esteem.  It  wearies  you 
to  earn  it,  but  without  it  you  are  uneasy  and  ashamed.” 

“ You  would  make  me  out  the  very  poorest  of  fools ! ” 

u No  ; your  feeling  is  not  ignoble,  for  it  comes  rather  from 
faithfulness  to  your  race  and  your  traditions  than  from  any 
minor  timidity  or  selfishness.  But,  let  it  spring  from  what 
it  may,  it  is  in  you.  You  are  not  a man  who  can  long  forget 
hinself  in  love.  You  have  been  ever  Lovelace,  never  Mont- 
rose. You  are  incapable  of  a life-long  devotion. 

“ Try  me  and  you  will  see  how  mercilessly  unjust  you 
are.” 

“ No ; you  would  promise  what  you  could  riot  fulfil.  Every 
year,  every  day,  our  relations  would  grow  more  familiar  to 
you,  and  so  less  powerful  to  hold  or  satisfy  you.  Every 
year,  every  day,  you  would  remember  with  more  bitterness 
all  that  you  have  given  up  in  sacrificing  your  good  name  and 
your  position  in  your  own  country.  Your  country  is  intoler- 
able to  you ; you  hate  its  weather,  its  society,  its  politics,  its 
hypocrisies,  and  .its  climate-,  but  yet,  having  given  it  up,  you 
sigh  for  it.  As  it  is  with  your  country,  so  it  is  with  your 
wife.  You  do  not  care  for  her — you  will  never  care  for  her. 
But  she  represents  something  which  you  have  lost  by  your 
own  act,  and  so  you  fret  for  her.” 

Where  he  stood  beside  her  in  the  moonlight  his  face  flushed 
painfully. 

“ It  is  not  that.  It  is  not  what  you  think,”  he  said  with 
agitation.  u You  know  well  I have  no  feeling  for  her  of  that 
sort.  But  I know  that  she  lives  in  suffering,  possibly  even 
in  temptation ; and  I cannot  forget  that  when  I married  her 
I swore  to  her  father  that  I would  make  her  happiness  as 
far  as  a man  can  make  a woman’s.  Of  course  those  promises 
are  made  and  forgotten  in  all  marriages — people  cannot  keep 
them  even  if  thev  would ; but  he  was  a man  whom  I honored* 
eintf  ne  is  aeaa;  ana  n seems  vUe  to  nave  been  x&xse  to  him. 


GUILDEROY. 


373 


That  is  all  the  regret  that  I feel — that  I have  felt.  I do  not 
think  it  is  a feeling  which,  if  you  could  wholly  understand 
it,  you  would  despise.” 

“ I do  not  despise  it.  But  I do  not  see  why  it  comes  to 
you  so  late.” 

He  was  silent. 

He  knew  well  enough  that  yonder  on  the  sea,  the  night 
that  he  had  been  bidden  by  her  to  make  and  abide  by  his 
choice,  he  had  chosen  the  sacrifice  of  his  happiness  rather 
than  of  his  word,  but  that  the  anger  into  which  his  wife’s 
unbidden  presence  had  hurried  him,  and  the  impetuosity  of 
his  emotions,  had  hurried  him  into  the  choice  which  had  ap- 
peared to  his  companion  to  be  wholly  voluntary  and  dispas- 
sionately meditated.  But  he  could  not  say  this  to  her  ; and, 
after  all,  he  knew  that  his  conscience  had  not  spoken  to  him 
until  in  the  streets  of  Venice  he  had  heard  the  jest  about  his 
cousin’s  visits  to  Christslea. 

“ But  I love  you,  I love  you ! I could  not  bear  my  life 
without  you ! ” he  cried,  as  he  kissed  the  silvery  furs  of  her 
mantle. 

“ Oh  yes,  you  will  bear  it,”  she  said  with  a smile  which 
was  half  sad,  half  scornful.  “ You  love  me  as  much  as  you 
can  love,  but  it  is  not  very  profoundly.  And  I am  quite 
sure  that  you  will  love  many  after  me.  The  only  woman 
you  will  never  love  is  your  wife.  Of  that  I am  satisfied.  But 
you  will  go  back  to  her.  You  will  place  yourself  right 
in  the  world’s  eyes.  I dare  say  you  will  have  many  children, 
like  the  virtuous  prince  in  the  fairy  tales,  and  you  will  never 
see  me  in  the  world  without  a sigh.  It  will  be  your  contri- 
bution to  the  past,  and  you  will  imagine  that  you  are 
wretched  because  you  have  lost  me  ; it  will  even  serve  you, 
perhaps,  as  a pose  to  interest  other  women  !” 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  stung  and  wounded  beyond  words. 

There  was  germ  enough  of  truth  in  the  cruel  words  to  hurt 
him  more  profoundly  than  any  accusation  wholly  unjust,  and 
yet  there  was  injustice  enough  in  them  to  rouse  an  agony  of 
indignation  in  his  heart. 

“Have  I deserved  this  from  you  ? ” he  said,  with  hot  tears 
standing  in  his  eyes.  “Have  I ever  given  you  right  or 
cause  to  say  such  things  of  me  ? Once,  indeed,  I sinned 
against  you,  I offended  you.  I have  done  my  best  to  atone 
for  that.  Which  of  us  is  it  now  who  first  speaks,  of  sever- 
ance and  of  disillusion  ? Which  of  us  is  it  now  who  rincts 
our  relations  insufficient  and  monotonous  ? You  are  unjust 


374 


GUILDEEOY. 


to  me — cruelly,  barbarously  unjust.  I have  told  you  tha 
truth  of  my  own  feelings  as  I analyze  and  find  them.  If  my 
candor  wrongs  me  in  your  sight  I cannot  help  it.  If  a man 
and  a woman,  after  years  of  intimacy,  cannot  speak  the  truth 
to  one  another,  who  can  ? . The  remorse  that  1 feel  for  my 
own  failure  to  pledges  which  I voluntarily  took  has  nothing 
to  do  with  my  devotion  to  you.  I am  neither  a great  man 
nor  a good  one,  but  such  as  I am  I have  given  you  all  my 
life.  I ask  nothing  of  you  or  of  Fate  but  to  be  allowed  to  so 
give  it  ever !” 

The  tears  which  had  dimmed  his  eyes  rolled  down  his 
cheeks.  He  felt  passionately  and  profoundly  ! And  he  felt 
also  his  own  utter  impotence  to  persuade  her  that  he  did  so. 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  tender  but  tranquil  gaze  of  a 
woman  who  has  loved  but  loves  no  more. 

“ Whilst  I could  and  did  believe  that  I loved  you  greatly,  I 
had  the  right  to  take  your  life  to  mine.  How  that  I do  not 
believe  that,  now  that  I look  in  my  own  heart  and  feel  that 
in  much  it  has  ceased  to  respond  to  yours,  I have  no  longer 
such  a right.  I am  bound  to  restore  you  to  your  world,  to 
your  freedom,  to  your  friends. ” 

“And  you  think  that  my  life  is  to  be  thrown  aside  like 
that  as  if  it  were  a mere  toy  of  which  you  had  tired  ? ” 

“ I have  never  treated  it  as  a toy,  nor  ever  treated  It 
lightly,  though  once  you  treated  mine  so.  You  are  unhappy, 
and  you  will  be  unhappy — for  a time.  But  you  will  be  rec- 
onciled to  yourself,  to  your  society,  and  to  your  wife.  Our 
position  is  one  in  which  there  can  be  the  most  perfect  happi- 
ness, whatever  moralists  may  say,  so  long  as  there  is  perfect 
love.  But  so  long  only ; and  that  is  not  between  us  now, 
though  there  are  the  memories  of  it.  They  must  be  sacred 
enough  to  preserve  us  from  all  recrimination,  from  all  enmity.” 
The  silence  which  followed  on  her  words  was  filled  only  by 
the  voice  of  the  sea. 

The  splendor  of  the  night  was  around  them,  and  in  its  still- 
ness there  arose  the  song  of  an  early-singing  nightingale, 
breaking  its  heart  in  the  orange  grove.  He  gave  a gesture 
of  despair  and  cast  himself  once  more  at  her  feet. 

“ I cannot  live  without  you  ! I cannot — I cannot ! ” 

She  stooped  and  kissed  him  fondly,  and  with  lingering 
touch,  upon  his  brow  and  hair. 

“Yes,  you  can  and  you  will.  Do  not  wait  to  feel  our  love 
perish  by  inches  day  by  day.  Let  us  part  while  we  still  care 
enough  to  part  in  tenderness.  So,  dear — good  night.” 


GUILiffiRor. 


m 

CHAPTER  LVII. 

A few  nights  later  Aubrey  walked  home  from  West- 
minster after  a tedious  debate — a weary  waste  of  breath  and 
speech  serving  no  purpose  but  to  bewilder  brains  already 
dull  enough  and  deafen  a country  already  only  too  obtuse. 
He  was  fatigued,  and  was  glad  to  breathe  even  the  close  air 
of  London  streets  after  those  many  hours  of  suffocating  and 
useless  verbiage. 

His  thoughts  went,  as  they  did  ever  in  his  lonely  moments, 
to  Gladys.  Was  she  sleeping  and  dreaming,  forgetful  of  her 
sorrows  ? ' Or  was  she  sleepless  and  dreamless  in  that  little 
chamber  under  the  apple-boughs,  within  the  sound  of  the 
sea  ? When  he  entered  the  great  gates  of  Balfrons  House 
it  was  almost  daybreak ; he  went  to  his  writing-room  as 
usual  to  glance  at  any  letters  or  despatches  which  might 
have  come  during  the  evening.  There  were  several ; but 
prominent  to  his  eyes  amongst  them  was  a large  envelope 
bearing  the  post-mark  of  Paris  and  addressed  to  him  by 
Guilderoy. 

“ The  only  woman  whom  I love  has  dismissed  me/’  said 
this  strange  message.  “ I am  free,  with  such  poor  freedom 
as  can  be  enjoyed  by  one  who  will  forever  drag  behind  him 
the  weight  of  an  unchangeable  regret.  I shall  never  love 
the  innocent  woman  whom  I have  married ; but  I will,  if  she 
accepts  such  reparation,  do  my  duty  by  her. 

“I  cannot,  I dare  not  promise  more.  I have  been  false, 
often  involuntarily,  to  all  my  past  promises  save  one  hither- 
to ; but  to  this  promise  which  I now  offer  I will  be  faithful 
if  her  indulgence  is  extended  to  me  and  her  affections  can 
be  satisfied  with  respect.  I send  my  letter  to  her  through 
you,  first  because  I know  that  you  have  more  influence  over 
her  than  any  one ; and  in  the  second  place,  because  I owe 
you  amends  for  the  insult  and  the  suspicion  I passed  upon 
you.  I can  give  you  no  better  proof  of  my  conviction  that 
both  were  undeserved  by  you  than  by  sending  through  you 
this  offer  of  my  future  to  her.  I trust  to  your  loyalty  and 
your  honor  in  confiding  such  a mission  to  them,  and  can 
think  of  no  better  way  to  prove  to  you  that  I am  confident 
you  are  her  best  friend  and  my  most  faithful  adviser.  You 
used  harsh  and  bitter  words  to  me  when  we  last  met ; but  they 
were  such  as  I esteem  you  for,  and  if  severe  they  wer®  de- 
served. I have  had  too  much  vanity  and  too  much  success 
in  life  and  in  love  5 I have,  in  both,  now  received  the  most 


376 


GtTlLDEftOt. 


humiliating  and  the  most  indelible  rebuff.  I have  failed  to 
retain  the  heart  and  to  satisfy  the  imagination  of  the  one 
woman  for  whom  I have  felt  a lasting  or  an  unselfish  pas- 
sion. For  my  suffering  you  will  eare  nothing,  and  you  will 
say  that  in  bringing  a crippled  and  mortified  heart  to  my 
wife  I shall  but  offend  her  further.  It  may  be  so,  and  if  she 
thinks  so  I shall  not  protest  against  her  decision.  But, 
again,  }^ou  have  said  that  she  loves  me  still,  and  women  who 
love  content  themselves  with  little.  The  immensity  of  their 
tenderness  is  wide  enough  to  cover  all  shortcomings,  and 
they  are  happy  if  they  can  heal  any  wounds,  even  if  those 
wounds  have  been  made  by  other  women.  I do  not  know 
that  she  has  this  tenderness  to  me ; she  has  always  to  me 
seemed  very  cold.  But  you  have  said  that  she  has  it,  and 
has  it  for  me.  Be  this  as  it  may,  she  is  proud ; she  may 
prefer  to  silence  the  tongues  of  the  world  by  a reunion  which 
shall  be  as  real,  or  merely  as  apparent,  as  she  pleases.  There 
has  been  no  publicity  such  as  would  make  such  reunion  im- 
possible, and  the  world,  if  we  resume  our  former  life,  will 
soon  forget  that  we  have  been  separated.  At  all  events  I 
have  thought  that  duty  and  honor,  however  tardily  obeyed, 
lead  me  to  offer  my  future  to  her.  She  can  do  with  it  what 
she  pleases.” 

Aubrey  flung  the  letter  on  the  floor  in  passionate  anger. 
Its  sincerity  he  did  not  doubt,  but  the  mission  it  placed  on 
him  was  loathsome. 

“Can  he  not  go  back  to  her  without  my  intervention  ? ” he 
thought  bitterly.  “ Must  he  needs  call  on  me  to  rejoin  his 
broken  ties  ? Could  he  find  no  other  messenger  ? Could  he 
not  write  to  her  direct  by  ordinary  means  ? What  title  has 
he  to  put  such  a burden  upon  me  ? What  right,  in  Heaven’s 
name,  to  bid  me  carry  his  soul  to  her  and  beseech  her  to  wash 
it  white  ? ” 

He  knew  that  Guilderoy  had  written  to  him  in  all  honesty 
and  well-meaning,  intending  to  make  reparation  for  his  sus^. 
picions  by  an  act  of  perfect  and  even  chivalrous  confidence. 
He  did  justice  to  the  motives  which  had  dictated  the  letter, 
but  he  cursed  the  writer  for  his  cruelty  and  for  the  task  which 
it  laid  upon  him.  For  a while  he  was  tempted  to  reject  it ; to 
send  it  back,  with  its  enclosure  and  say,  “ I cannot  be  your 
ambassador.  She  is  yours — go  to  her  without  preface.” 

Thrice  he  wrote  those  lines,  or  lines  similar  to  them  ; and 
then  tore  them  up,  dissatisfied  with  them  as  cowardice  and 
selfishness.  If  he  loved  her,  as  he  did,  should  he  lose  any 


GUILDEROY. 


377 


Oftsion  of  opening  the  gates  of  happiness  to  her  ? He  knew 
that  she  was  proud  and  unforgiving  ; that  she  deemed  hen* 
self  hound  in  self-respect  to  adhere  to  her  choice  of  a lonely 
and  self-sufficing  life ; he  knew  that  Guilderoy,  going  to  her 
simply  because  the  woman  whom  he  loved  had  dismissed  him, 
would  almost  surely  be  dismissed  by  her  with  scorn  and  even 
with  hatred. 

Was  not  he,  who  knew  this,  bound  to  do  his  uttermost  to 
stand  between  her  and  what  would  be  to  her  a lifelong  sever- 
ance from  one  whom  she  loved?  To  employ  such  means  as  he 
possessed  of  swaying  her  mind  and  persuading  her  character 
to  bend  to  that  forgiveness  without  which  she  would  be  eter- 
nally wretched  ? To  do  for  her  in  this  moment  of  her  life 
what  her  father  would  certainly  have  done  had  he  been  liv- 
ing now  ? 

He  was  obliged  in  no  way,  indeed,  to  serve  her  or  his 
cousin  ; he  could  let  their  lives  drift  apart  as  they  might,  and 
would  have  no  need  to  blame  himself  or  fear  the  blame  of 
others.  But  that  cold  neutrality  seemed  base  to  him ; that 
withdrawing  of  his  conscience  behind  the  pale  of  what  was 
obligation  and  what  was  not,  seemed  to  him  poor  and  mean. 
Generous  natures  know  nothing  of  such  cautious  limitations. 

“ If  I love  thee,  what  is  that  to  thee  ? he  thought.  Noth- 
ing, indeed,  but  to  him  it  was  much  ; to  him  it  seemed  to 
require  from  him  as  much  devotion  and  service  as  though 
she  had  been  wholly  his.  She  had  trusted  him — entirely  and 
innocently  trusted  him  ; to  Aubrey  this  gave  her  title  to  his 
allegiance  forever. 

He  took  up  the  letter  for  her  which  had  been  enclosed  in 
Guilderoy’s.  It  was  left  unsealed  for  him  to  read  it.  He  did 
not  read  it — he  could  guess  the  contents  ; they  must  be,  he 
knew,  the  same  that  had  been  said  to  him — softened  and 
mitigated  probably,  but  the  same  in  substance.  He  put  it 
unread  in  the  inner  pocket  of  his  coat  and  rang  for  his 
private  secretary 

('  I must  go  into  the  country  for  a day/'  he  said  to  the 
young  man.  u There  is  nothing  pressing  at  the  House  for 
the  moment,  and  I shall  be  back  to-morrow  night  in  time 
for  a division  if  there  be  one.  See  to  these  matters,”  and  he 
gave  him  the  directions  necessary  for  the  conduct  of  many 
subjects  of  importance  and  urgency,  with  the  rapidity  and 
clearness  of  explanation  which  become  second  nature  to 
public  men.  In  another  hour  he  was  in  the  open  country, 
and  in  the  midst  of  fields  and  woods  bathed  in  pale  sunshine^ 


378 


GUILDJEROY. 


going  towards  the  south-west  sea-shore  where  the  village  of 
Christslea  lay,  with  the  swell  of  Atlantic  rollers  beating 
against  its  cliffs. 

He  had  not  seen  her  since  the  day  that  he  had  told  her 
that  he  could  have  no  mistress  in  any  sense  of  love  save 
England.  He  had  written  to  her  briefly  from  time  to  time,  to 
hear  of  her  health  ; but  no  other  intercourse  had  taken  place 
between  them.  In  his  letters  to  her  he  had  pleaded  the  stress 
©f  Parliamentary  and  Ministerial  work  as  the  reason  of  his 
absence.  She  understood  what  the  true  reason  was,  and  did 
not  urge  him  to  visit  her  as  she  had  been  used  to  do.  But 
the  weeks  and  months  had  been  more  dreary,  more  intoler- 
able to  her,  now  that  she  had  lost  the  one  relief,  the  one 
solace,  the  one  pleased  expectancy  of  his  occasional  visits, 
and  often  she  wished  wistfully  that  she  were  lying  insensible 
to  all  pain  beside  her  father  under  the  mossy  turf. 

The  companionship  and  the  correspondence  of  Aubrey  had 
been  to  her  a far  greater  happiness  and  consolation  than  she 
had  known  until  they  had  almost  ceased,  or  had  at  the  best 
passed  into  an  infrequent  and  restrained  assurance  of  friend- 
ship. Often  now  as  she  walked  to  and  fro  the  shore  in  the 
rough  winds  of  the  early  spring  weather,  she  felt  with  a 
feeling  akin  to  terror  that  it  was  not  Guilderoy  but  his 
cousin  whom  she  missed,  whom  she  thought  of,  whom  she 
regretted.  All  that  serious  and  tender  solicitude  for  her,  all 
that  manly  and  generous  devotion  to  her,  although  so  care- 
fully kept  within  the  bounds  of  friendship  and  family 
relationship,  had  penetrated  her  inmost  nature  with  its 
unselfishness  and  moved  her  to  a gratitude  which  was  in 
itself  a form  of  affection.  She  had  not  been  conscious  of  how 
great  a place  he  occupied  in  her  life  until  the  cessation  of 
of  his  visits  to  Christslea. 

She  began  slowly  to  realize,  as  she  had  never  realized 
before,  what  were  those  dangers  to  her  of  which  her  father 
had  warned  her  in  words  whose  meaning  she  could  now  read 
by  the  light  of  her  own  heart.  Her  present  was  a blank, 
and  her  future  was  one  which  terrified  her.  She  began  to 
realize  also  how  frightful  a thing  was  this  utter  loneliness  to 
which  she  was  self-condemned.  There  were  moments  when 
it  was  all  that  she  could  do  to  find  strength  to  resist  the 
impulse  to  cast  herself  headlong  from  the  rocks,  to  find  the 
numbness  and  dumbness  of  death  amongst  those  tossing 
waves  in  which  her  rosy  feet  had  paddled  in  infancy,  finding 
jn  them  her  merriest  playfellows.  It  was  the  memory  of  her 


GUILLERO?. 


m 


father  which  alone  sustained  her  against  the  supreme  temp- 
tation of  isolated  lives.  She  seemed  to  hear  his  voice  saying 
to  her  in  the  words  of  the  Athenian  by  whom  a higher  creed 
was  reached  than  any  priests  ever  taught.  “ When  death 
approaches,  the  mortal  part  dies,  but  the  immortal  part 
departs,  safe  and  uncorrupted,  having  withdrawn  itself  from 
death.”  Should  she  dare  to  put  out  that  light  of  the  soul 
with  her  own  hand  ? 

Her  father  had  rightly  foreseen  that  the  friends  who  would 
serve  her  best  in  the  trials  of  her  life  would  be  those  Im- 
mortals with  whom  he  had  taught  her,  even  as  a child,  to 
converse. 

With  the  coming  of  the  tardy  English  spring  the  burden 
of  her  days  grew  heavier,  and  their  solitude  more  unbearable 
in  its  vacancy.  When  all  the  gladness  of  reviving  life  is 
coming  to  all  animate  things  and  to  the  waking  earth  itself, 
all  youth  which  is  lonely  and  unloved  feels  its  isolation,  and 
its  physical  and  spiritual  desires,  with  more  cruel  sharpness 
than  at  any  other  period  of  the  year.  Greenness  to  the 
grass  and  glory  to  the  flowers  can  return — why  not  the  joys 
of  the  senses  and  the  soul  ? 

She  knew  that  Aubrey  had  said  aright ; that  her  life  was 
barren  and  unblessed.  Was  it  her  own  fault  that  it  had 
become  so  ? Had  she  lacked  gentleness,  sympathy,  indulg- 
ence ? — all  those  unpromised  gifts  which  love  should  bring 
unasked,  and  without  which  the  bare  promise  of  fidelity  is 
nought.  Humility  had  come  to  her,  and  great  sadness,  and 
contrition,  and  self-censure  ; she  began  to  learn  how  hard  it 
is  to  guard  the  gates  of  the  soul  from  its  tempters,  how  use- 
less to  pledge  feelings  which  must  change  as  the  mind  and 
the  heart  grow  older,  and  demand  more,  ere  they  can  be  sat- 
isfied. She  ceased  to  blame  her  husband  in  proportion  as 
she  ceased  to  care  for  him.  Her  love  seemed  to  have  died 
out  of  her  with  that  violent  and  delirious  jealousy  which 
once  had  moved  her  so  absolutely,  and  now  seemed  dead  as 
last  year’s  leaves. 

It  was  a balmy  and  sunny  afternoon  when  Aubrey  reached 
Christslea.  The  cattle,  released  from  their  stalls,  were  stray- 
ing at  will  on  moor  and  pasture.  The  first  fisher  fleet  of  the 
spring-time  was  visible  in  the  offing:  red-brown  sails  against 
a silvery-blue  sky.  The  orchards  were  all  in  blossom  in  a 
sweet  confusion  of  rose  and  white.  The  pigeons  flew  above 
the  boughs  and  the  sea-gulls  flew  above  the  waves.  It  was 
all  soft,  cool,  pale  and  fresh ; English  in  its  sobriety  and 


380 


GUILDEROY. 


simplicity  of  tint,  and  with  the  haze  and  the  scent  of  the 
morrow’s  rain  in  the  air.  She  was  standing  in  the  orchard 
when  he  put  his  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  gate.  A joy  of 
which  she  was  wholly  unconscious  broke  oyer  the  sadness  of 
her  face  like  sunshine  as  she  saw  him  and  came  towards 
him. 

“ It  is  so  long  since  you  were  here/’  she  said,  holding  out 
both  her  hands  to  him. 

He  took  them  in  his  own,  but  did  not  hold  them  for  more 
than  a moment. 

“ Yes,  it  is  long,”  he  said,  with  a sigh. 

All  that  welcome  and  affection  speaking  in  her  face  were 
to  him  as  the  sight  of  a spring  of  clear  wrater  to  a tired  way- 
farer who  cannot  reach  to  drink  of  it. 

“ Have  you  missed  me  ? ” he  asked,  involuntarily. 

A shiver  passed  over  her  as  she  stood  in  the  pale  sun- 
shine. 

“ Very  much,”  she  answered  simply. 

He  was  silent. 

Then  he  said  abruptly:  “Let  us  go  up  on  the  cliff;  I 
have  something  to  tell  you  which  will  be  best  told  by 
your  father’s  grave.  Besides,  under  all  these  blossoms  and 
boughs  one  cannot  breathe.” 

“ I will  go  where  you  wish,”  she  said ; her  new-born  hap- 
piness was  startled  and  overshadowed.  She  had  a presenti- 
ment of  ill. 

They  walked  almost  in  silence  out  of  the  orchard  and 
across  the  stretch  of  rough  grass-land  which  parted  it  from 
the  cliff- path  which  Guilderoy  a few  months  earlier  had  seen 
her  ascend.  It  was  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  silence 
was  unbroken  around  them ; the  air  was  sweet  and  strong, 
the  sea  calm.  They  crossed  the  head  of  the  cliff  until  they 
reached  a seat  under  the  churchyard  wall,  shaded  by  the 
evergreen  hedge  and  the  yews  and  pines  of  its  enclosure. 

“We  will  wait  here/’  said  Aubrey.  “ You  can  see  the 
sea  ; it  is  always  your  friend  and  counsellor.” 

The  graveyard,  with  its  tall  and  slender  marble  pillar  rising 
above  the  evergreen  foliage,  and  the  light,  silvery,  shadowy 
wands  of  blossoming  willows,  was  behind  them,  and  before 
them,  far  below,  the  gray  and  tranquil  waters  of  the  bay, 

“ I have  this  letter  to  bring  to  you  from  Evelyn,”  he  said, 
and  took  out  the  note  addressed  to  her  and  gave  it  to  her. 

As  she  recognized  the  handwriting  she  grew  very  pale,  and 
an  expression  that  was  almost  terror  came  into  her  eyes. 


GUILDEROY. 


381 


u He  has  no  right,  no  right  whatever,  to  address  me,”  she 
said,  and  made  a gesture  to  refuse  the  letter.  It  fell  on  the 
turf  between  them. 

Aubrey  stooped  for  it  and  offered  it  to  her  again. 

“ He  has  every  right,”  he  said  coldly,  “ and  you  are  bound 
to  read  whatever  he  says  to  you.  Do  not  be  either  obstinate 
or  ungenerous.” 

“ It  is  you  who  are  ungenerous  to  me.” 

“ Do  not  let  us  quarrel,  my  dear,”  said  Aubrey,  in  the 
words  that  Beatrice  Soria  had  used  to  Guilderoy.  u Life  is 
painful  enough  without  dissension.  I bid  you  read  this  let- 
ter ; first  because  I know  the  contents,  and  know  that  they 
are  such  as  you  are  bound  to  consider,  and  because,  in  the 
second  place,  as  I have  been  made  the  bearer  of  it,  he  would 
think  that  I had  betrayed  my  trust  if  you  refused.” 

She  was  silent  some  moments;  then  she  took  the  envelope 
from  his  hand,  and  open  it  and  read  what  it  contained. 

She  read  it  rapidly,  guessing  rather  than  perusing  its  sen- 
tences. 

u Aubrey  will  tell  you  better  than  I can  write  to  you  what 
it  is  I ask  from  you  after  these  many  months  of  silence  and 
separation.  Do  not  think,  my  dear,  that  I would  urge  for  a 
moment  any  rights  that  the  law  may  give  me  when  I have 
morally  forfeited  them ; and  do  not  think  that  I would  seek 
to  persuade  or  to  solicit  you.  I tell  you  frankly,  the  woman 
I love,  for  whom  I left  you,  loves  me  no  more.  This  avowal 
is  the  greatest  proof  of  my  sincerity  and  of  my  humility  that 
I can  give  you.  I make  you  no  grand  protestations,  but,  if 
you  care  to  do  so,  our  life  together  might  be  renewed,  with 
every  wish  on  my  part  to  make  it  happier  for  you  than  the 
past  has  been.  Marriage  is  the  cruellest  of  all  mistakes,  and  I 
cannot  ever  regret  enough  that  I led  into  its  captivity  your 
innocent  and  ignorant  youth.  I can  only  say  that  the  error 
was  made  by  me  in  all  good  faith,  and  that  if  I have  been 
untrue  to  my  promises  to  you  and  to  your  father  I have  al- 
ways been  so  without  premeditation,  and  with  self-reproach 
which  has  been  more  poignant  than  you  would  consent  to 
believe.  I have  offended  you,  and  I will  not  seek  to  palliate 
my  offence  by  saying,  as  I perhaps  might  say  with  some  show 
of  self-justification,  that  you  did  not  give  me  either  that 
sympathy  or  that  indulgence  which  I had  hoped  for  from 
you.  It  is  enough  to  say  now  that  if  you  care  to  do  so  I 
am  willing  to  begin  our  lives  afresh.” 

The  letter  was  manly,  sincere,  and  plainly  written  from 


382 


GUILDEROY. 


the  heart ; it  would  have  touched  and  won  any  woman  who 
had  loved  him  into  forgiveness  of  faults  even  much  graver 
than  his  had  been  ; but  it  did  not  touch  her  because  the  feel- 
ing  which  had  bound  her  to  him  was  dead,  and  a dead  thing 
can  return  neither  cry  nor  caress.  She  read  it.  Then  she 
threw  it  again  on  the  ground. 

“ He  comes  to  me  because  she  has  dismissed  him  ! ” she 
cried  with  violence,  her  nostrils  dilated  and  quivering  like 
those  of  a blood-mare  under  the  spur. 

“ It  is  at  least  honest  of  him  to  tell  you  so.  He  could 
easily  have  affected  to  you  that  he  abandoned  her  for  your 
sake.  Believe  me,  candor  in  a man  of  the  world  to  women, 
and  about  women,  is  the  very  rarest  of  all  qualities.” 

She  turned  on  him  with  passionate  indignation  and  suffer- 
ing. 

u You  defend  him  ; you  always  defend  him  ! Why  should 
he  choose  you  as  his  messenger  ? Has  he  not  hurt  me 
enough  already  ? ” 

Aubrey  passed  over  the  admission  which  was  confessed  in 
her  words. 

“ He  chose  me  because  he  had  been  unjust  to  me  and 
wished  to  give  me  this  mark  of  his  confidence,”  he  replied, 
with  that  self-negation  which  he  had  imposed  on  himself 
when  he  had  accepted  the  mission  to  her.  “ I do  not  defend 
his  past  conduct.  He  knows  all  that  I think  of  it.  But  I 
am  compelled  in  honor  to  say  now,  that  I believe  he  desires 
fully  to  make  such  reparation  to  you  as  may  be  in  his  power.” 
“ Because  the  Duchess  Soria  has  wearied  of  him ! ” 

“ Not  only  because  of  that.  He  is  neither  heartless  nor 
conscienceless,  and  he  felt  bitterly  months  ago  that  he  had 
been  false  to  his  promises  to  your  father.  I think  you  may 
believe  what  he  says  now  the  more  fully  because  he  makes  no 
protest  of  feelings  which  do  not  move  him,  and  which  would 
be  even  an  insult  offered  to  you  at  this  moment,  however  the 
future  may  renew  them  in  you  both.” 

“ They  will  never  be  renewed.  Their  love  was  renewed 
because  it  once  had  been  great ; but  between  him  and  me 
there  has  never  been  such  love — never,  never  ! A year  ago 
it  would  have  made  me  glad,”  she  said  wearily.  ‘ “ I should 
perhaps  have  scorned  myself,  as  I told  you  that  I should  do, 
but  I should  have  been  happy.  Not  now.  He  has  waited  too 
long.  What  does  he  think  I am  that  I should  be  willing  to 
meet  him  after  all  these  months  ? ” 

“ He  thinks  you  are  what  you  are — his  wife,” 


GU1LDEB0Y. 


383 


“ He  set  me  free  from  that  bond  when  he  left  me.” 

“ Your  father  would  not  have  said  so.” 

« But  I say  so.  Go  you  and  tell  him  so.  Why  does  he 
seek  to  return  to  me  ? Not  out  of  real  remorse,  nor  any 
tenderness ; only  because  he  is  proud  and  knows  that  th@ 
world  blames  him.” 

“ You  are  too  harsh.” 

“ Truth  is  harsh.” 

He  felt  a mad  longing  to  lift  her  in  his  arms  and  hear  her 
far  away  from  all  their  world  before  his  cousin  could  reach 
there  to  claim  her.  For  a moment  all  the  soft  pale  sunshine 
seemed  to  him  red  as  blood,  and  the  beating  of  the  sea  upon 
the  sands  like  the  throbs  of  the  many  human  hearts  sound- 
ing in  agonized  revolt  against  the  brutalities  and  the  hypoc- 
risies of  social  law. 

“If  he  had  written  it  a year  ago — six  months  ago — it 
would  have  made  me  happy.  I would  have  forgiven  all — ah ! 
what  do  I say  ? — Love  always  forgives  because  it  is  love. 
Now  I cannot  forgive  because  I have  ceased  to  care  ! Why 
does  he  come  to  me  when  it  is  too  late  ? Go,  tell  him  so. 
It  is  too  late  ! too  late  ! ” 

“ It  is  never  too  late  for  a woman’s  mercy ” 

“ Mercy ! What  mercy  would  there  be  in  a feigned  wel- 
come ? What  is  the  body  without  the  soul  ? What  use  to 
give  him  myself  when  I cannot  give  him  my  affections  ? ” 

“ You  will  give  them  again  when  you  have  seen  him  once 
more.  You  are  dreaming  of  coldness  and  of  harshness  that 
you  do  not  feel ” 

“I  have  ceased  to  dream  long  ago.  I know  what  life  is 
too  well.  Dreams  are  for  the  happy  ! ” 

“ Surely  on  your  side ” 

“Yes ; I loved  him  as  one  loves  when  one  is  very  young ; 
but  it  is  dead  in  me ; it  is  dead,  dead,  dead,  I tell  you — like 
Any  skeleton  of  any  drowned  creature  that  lies  at  the  bottom 
of  that  sea  ! ” 

Aubrey  turned  from  her,  and  walked  to  and  fro  upon  the 
turf  before  her.  The  pain  of  the  moment  was  almost  be- 
yond his  strength,  well  tutored  though  it  was. 

“You  think  so,”  he  said  after  a long  pause  ; “you  think 
so  because  you  are  hurt,  indignant,  and  even  more  outraged 
at  his  solicitation  of  forgiveness  than  you  were  by  his  origi- 
nal desertion.  But  this  will  pass  away.  You  once  loved 
my  cousin  with  passion  if  not  with  wisdom ; he  is  not  a man 
whom  women  forget.  When  he  comes  to  you;  you  will  eoa- 


384 


GUILDEROY . 


sent  to  what  he  wishes ; you  will  pass  over  tnose  eighteen 
months  of  bitterness,  you  will  only  remember  that  you  were 
once  devoted  to  him,  and  that  he  was  the  man  who  taught 
you  the  first  meaning  of  love,  and  was  the  father  of  your 
dead  children.” 

“No,  no,  no!”  she  said  with  violence.  “No  — forever 
no  ! His  place  is  empty  in  my  heart.  There  is  a stone 
there ; no  warmth,  no  desire,  no  remembrance  ; only  a stone 
— the  stone  which  has  the  seal  of  oblivion,  the  stone  that  you 
set  on  a grave  ! ” 

She  threw  herself  on  her  knees  beside  the  wooden  bench 
and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  sobbed  with  the  con- 
vulsive weeping  which  he  had  seen  once  before. 

“ Why  could  I not  meet  you  first  ? You  would  have 
been  true  to  me  ! ” she  cried  in  the  passion  of  her  tears,  not 
knowing  what  she  said ; knowing  only  that  a great  nature 
was  wasted  on  her  in  vain,  without  joy  to  itself  or  gladness 
to  her. 

Aubrey  sighed ; his  features  changed  and  his  eyes  filled 
with  an  unspeakable  yearning. 

He  saw  that  her  heart  in  its  indignation,  its  solitude, 
its  want  of  sympathy,  and  its  recognition  of  sympathy,  both 
of  feeling  and  of  temperament,  in  him,  turned  towards  him 
instinctively  as  a beaten  child  turns  to  those  who  will  soothe 
and  caress  it.  He  saw  that  with  but  little  effort  he  could 
detach  her  from  what  still  remained  in  her  of  love  for  his 
cousin,  and  lead  her  humiliated  and  lonely  soul  to  his,  there 
to  find  comfort  if  not  joy.  He  knew  that  he  had  in  him  the 
power  to  console  her,  the  heart  which  could  alone  meet  and 
content  her  own ; but  he  knew,  too,  that  it  rested  with  him 
to  awake  her  to  this  knowledge  or  to  let  it  slumber  in  her  un- 
aroused forever.  He  had  never  before  deemed  it  possible. 
He  had  been  wholly  sincere  when  he  had  told  his  cousin  that 
she  cared  nothing  for  himself.  But  at  this  moment,  in  her 
whole  attitude,  in  the  tears  she  wept,  in  the  broken  words  she 
muttered,  he  realized  that  it  would  not  be  a task  beyond  his 
powers  to  make  her  see  in  him  more  than  a friend,  to  lead  her 
from  gratitude  to  other  and  warmer  emotions,  to  suggest  to 
her  that  the  greatest  chastisement  which  a woman  can  take 
upon  a faithless  love  is  to  find  and  make  her  life’s  happiness 
without  it.  For  a moment  all  his  heart  and  all  his  senses 
made  the  temptation  more  than  he  had  strength  to  bear  • but 
with  an  instant’s  meditation  he  found  force  to  resist. 

" I should  not  have  loved  you  in  that  sense,  my  dear,”  he 


GUILDEROY. 


385 


said  with  a lie  which  was  more  heroic  than  any  truth.  “Long 
ago  I loyed  one  woman  madly,  and  she  was  false  to  me.  I 
would  have  told  you  my  story  long  ago,  hut  I never  thought 
that  you  would  care  to  hear  it.  I gave  to  her  all  that  a man 
can  give,  and  she  rewarded  me  by  the  lowest  of  intrigue,.,  the 
foulest  of  infidelities.  I was  very  young  when  she  robbed  my 
life  of  all  its  color  and  warmth,  and  left  me  only  such  cold 
consolation  as  may  lie  in  the  pursuit  of  public  duties.  But 
she  closed  my  heart  to  passion  forever.  I can  feel  affection 
and  devotion — I feel  them  both  for  you — but  nothing  beyond 
those.  Do  not  think  of  me  ever  as  a lover  for  any  living 
woman.  The  only  mistress  I shall  ever  have  in  any  sense  of 
love  is  England.” 

His  voice  was  low  and  grave,  and  infinitely  tender ; his 
declaration  was  an  untruth,  but  it  was  nobler  than  all  truth. 

“Even  were  it  otherwise  with  me,”  he  said,  wearily.  “I 
could  not,  I would  not,  risk  the  accusation  from  my  cousin 
and  the  world  that  I had  abused  his  trust  in  me,  that  I had 
taken  advantage  of  his  absence  and  your  loneliness.  I may 
mistake,  and  think  that  honor  in  me  which  is  only  selfishness, 
but  this  is  what  I feel  and  what  would  guide  me  if — if — you 
Were  still  dearer  to  me  than  you  are.” 

He  paused,  and  his  deep  and  labored  breathing  sounded 
painfully  upon  the  country  silence  round  them. 

“And  if,”  he  added,  “if  I be  so  urgent  with  you  to  receive 
Guilderoy  and  reunite  your  life  to  his,  it  is  because  I feel 
that  in  the  earliest  years  of  our  acquaintance  I perhaps  did 
wrong  in  enlisting  your  confidence  and  giving  you  my  sym- 
pathy. I often  now  blame  myself ; I perhaps  helped  to 
alienate  you  from  him.  I perhaps  turned  towards  myself 
sympathies  and  confidences  which,  had  I not  been  there, 
might  have  found  their  way  in  time  to  him.  I ask  you,  dear, 
to  take  this  remorse  from  me.  He  has  many  lovable  qualities  ; 
he  has  many  high  talents ; he  feels  sincerely  towards  you,  if 
not  warmly ; you  may  make  his  future  such  as  his  boyhood 
promised,  if  you  care  for  him.” 

“ But  I do  not  care.” 

She  rose  to  her  feet ; her  features  were  stern  and  scornful, 
her  eyes  were  full  of  passionate  feeling  burning  through 
their  tears  ; he  seemed  to  her  as  cruel  as  Guilderoy  had  been, 
as  the  world  had  been,  as  life  had  been:  caring  nothing  for 
her  and  her  pain  and  her  fate ; caring  only  for  the  world’s 
opinion  and  a man’s  egotism,  and  the  mere  pride  of  race. 

“ Then  I have  more  remorse  than  I thought,  or  than  I 


S86 


GUILDEEOT. 


have  strength  to  bear,”  he  said,  as  his  eyes  met  hers  for  one 
moment  in  that  regard  which  strips  bare  to  the  heart  and 
unveils  the  inmost  soul. 

Then,  without  another  word,  or  any  sign  even  of  farewell, 
he  turned  away  from  her  and  went  with  rapid  steps  across 
the  grassland  and  down  the  pathway  of  the  cliff. 

She  stood  motionless  and  looked  after  him,  her  eyes  wist- 
fully  searching  the  vacant  air  long  after  he  had  passed  from 
sight. 

The  spring  night  was  cold  and  the  dews  falling  heavily 
when  she  left  the  place  where  her  father  lay,  and  returned 
with  slow  and  tired  steps  to  the  house. 

She  had  her  husband’s  letter  in  her  hand.  When  she 
reached  her  chamber,  she  read  it  again  and  again,  trying  to 
awake  with  it  one  chord  of  the  music  which  was  silent  in  her 
soul. 

Life  seemed  to  her  hard,  conventional,  artificial,  hateful. 

One  man  left  her  because  his  honor  was  dearer  to  him  than 
she  was,  and  one  man  returned  to  her  because  he  was  uneasy 
whilst  the  world  thought  ill  of  him. 

What  was  the  worth  of  love  or  friendship  if  they  quailed 
before  the  opinion  of  others  ? 

What  use  were  the  beauty,  and  the  heart,  and  the  mind 
of  a woman  if  they  could  inspire  nothing  more  than  that  ? 

She  passed  the  hours  of  the  night  walking  to  and  fro  that 
narrow  bedchamber  where  she  had  slept  as  a child,  hearing 
the^  hoarse  notes  of  the  village  clock  record  the  dreary 
passing  of  the  time. 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

That  night  Guilderoy  was  in  his  house  in  Paris,  the  prey 
to  many  conflicting  feelings,  which  banished  the  carelessness 
and  ease  with  which  his  nature  had  hitherto  met  the  com- 
plexities of  human  life. 

He  was  not  sure  whether  he  most  wished  or  most  feared 
his  wife’s  acceptance  of  his  offer.  He  had  been  entirely 
honest  in  all  that  he  had  written  to  her  and  to  his  cousin ; 
but  he  dreaded  the  results  of  it  with  that  shrinking  from  all 
pain  and  all  obligation  which  had  always  been  so  strong  in 
him.  He  could  not  dismiss  the  anxiety  which  governed  him  ; 
he  could  not  eat  or  sleep,  or  seek  his  usual  distractions  in 
this  city  which  was  so  familiar  and  so  pleasant  to  him.  He 
was  restless  under  the  sense  which  haunted  him,  of  the  iu* 


GUILDEBOY. 


387 


•vitable  scorn  with  which  Aubrey  would  regard  his  vacilla- 
tions and  his  confidence,  and  he  already  repented  the  impulse 
which  had  made  him  select  his  cousin  as  his  intercessor. 

He  wished  that  he  had  gone  himself  without  any  preparation 
or  mediation  to  Christslea  as  the  day  and  the  night  wore  on- 
ward, and  each  succeeding  hour  might  bring  him  a message 
from  Aubrey. 

His  heart  ached  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  under  a wound 
which  could  not  be  closed  or  stilled  by  any  anodyne  or  pleas- 
ure. The  humiliation  with  which  the  dismissal  by  the 
woman  he  loved  had  filled  him  would  not  pass  away  for  many 
a year ; perhaps  never. 

He  was  conscious  that  she  had  weighed  him  in  the  scales 
of  her  fine  intelligence  and  found  him  wanting ; he  knew 
that  he  had  failed  to  respond  to  her  imagination  ; he  knew, 
too,  that  what  she  had  ceased  to  give  to  him  she  might  give 
to  others.  He  had  been  weary,  dissatisfied,  and  haunted  by 
remorse  when  with  her,  but  without  her  his  existence  was  a 
blank  and  his  soul  torn  by  a vague  but  intolerable  jealousy. 

He  who  had  never  before  known  that  passion  which  is  the 
companion  of  unhappy  love  was  now,  if  it  be  possible  to 
be  so,  jealous  at  once  of  two  women  whom  he  had  possessed 
utterly,  and  yet  whom  he  had  both,  through  his  own  incon- 
stancy and  vacillation,  lost:  and  for  the  first  time  in  his 
whole  life  neither  his  careless  philosophy  nor  his  swiftly- 
changing  caprices  could  solace  him  or  build  up  anew  the 
cloud  palace  of  amorous  content.  He  was  dissatisfied  with 
himself.  All  that  was  best  and  most  spiritual  in  him  con- 
demned him  in  his  own  eyes.  He  could  have  defended  his 
conduct  easily  to  others,  but  he  could  not  defend  it  to  him- 
self. It  was  dawn  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  and  birds  were  twit- 
tering in  the  lime-trees  beneath  his  window  when  his  servant 
brought  him  the  telegram  he  was  expecting  from  his  cousin. 

He  tore  it  open  nervously. 

“ I have  done  what  you  asked,”  said  Aubrey,  in  it.  “ I 
have  no  mandate  from  her,  but  I believe  it  will  be  as  you 
wish.  Go  yourself.” 

Was  he  glad  or  not  ? He  could  not  tell.  He  was  con- 
scious of  a weight  of  duties  and  obligations  which  rolled  back 
like  a stone  over  his  life ; and  he  was  also  conscious  of  that 
relief  which  comes  from  a choice  finally  resolved  and  a con- 
science quieted  and  appeased.  Amidst  all  the  chaos  of  his 
thoughts  he  was  touched  to  admiration  of  Aubrey’s  gent- 
rosity  and  loyalty.  Not  one  man  in  ten  million  would  h&Y$ 


GUILD EROY. 


%8S 

accepted  such  a task,  or,  accepting  it,  would  have  executed  it 
to  the  end  with  perfect  self-abnegation.  He  could  not  have 
reached  such  Stoical  nobility  himself ; but  he  recognized  the 
greatness  of  it. 

“ I shall  go  to  England  this  morning,  ” he  said  to  his 
people ; and  as  he  spoke  the  door  of  his  room  opened  and  his 
sister  entered.  She  had  arrived  that  moment  in  Paris,  and 
had  come  there  without  changing  her  clothes,  taking  an 
hour’s  sleep,  or  even  breaking  her  fast. 

He  saw  her  with  displeasure.  They  had  not  met  since 
the  late  snmmer  which  had  followed  John  Vernon’s  death; 
and  the  remembrance  of  her  letters  which  he  had  read  in 
Venice  was  fresh  and  hateful  to  him. 

She  seemed  ever  to  him  like  a bird  of  evil  omen,  watching 
and  waiting  till  the  corpse  of  some  dead  human  happiness 
fell  to  her.  And  yet  she  was  what  the  world  called  a good 
woman — pious,  chaste,  virtuous,  and  wise. 

“Why  are  you  here  ?”  he  said  with  impatience  and  dis- 
courtesy, making  no  affectation  of  a welcome  which  he  could 
not  give  or  of  a pleasure  which  he  could  not  feel. 

“Is  that  all  the  greeting  you  give  me  after  all  these 
months  ? ” 

“ I cannot  pretend  what  I do  not  feel,”  he  said  irritably. 
“ I am  sure  that  you  would  not  come  to  me  thus,  unannounced, 
unsummoned,  unless  you  had  some  bad  newrs  to  bring  or 
some  cruel  suspicion  to  suggest.” 

“You  are  unjust” — her  voice  was  broken,  her  lips  quiv- 
ered ; she  was  tired,  cold,  and  unnerved.  In  her  own  way  she 
loved  him,  and  she  felt  that  even  such  affection  as  he  had 
ever  felt  for  her  was  gone. 

“ I am  not  unjust,”  he  answered  coldly.  “ You  have  never 
ceased  to  irritate  and  alienate  me.  You  mean  well,  perhaps, 
but  if  you  have  the  intentions  of  a saint,  you  have  the 
insinuation  of  a fiend.  I received  all  your  letters  in  Italy  I 
never  answered  them  because  they  offended  and  disgusted  me. 
You  always  hated  my  wife.  You  recognized  the  fineness  of 
her  nature,  but  you  never  ceased  to  be  pitiless  to  her.  I do 
not  know  it,  but  I am  as  certain  as  that  we  stand  here  that 
it  was  you  who  informed  her  of  my  relations,  before  my 
marriage,  with  the  only  woman  I ever  loved.” 

“ I thought  it  right  that  she  should  know  of  them,”  replied 
his  sister,  who  was  never  without  courage.  “And  those 
same  relations  renewed  after  marriage  have  been  made  public 
to  every  one  by  yourself.” 


gtjillehoy. 


389 


“What  is  that  to  you?”  said  Guilderoy,  white  With  ill- 
controlled  passion.  “You  are  not  my  keeper.  It  is  nothing 
to  you  what  I do.  You  are  a good  woman — oh  yes  ! — and 
you  make  your  virtues  into  a sheaf  of  poisoned  arrows  with 
which  you  slay  the  lives  of  others.  What  did  you  write — 
what  did  you  dare  to  write — to  me  in  Venice  and  elsewhere  ? 
You  slandered  Aubrey,  whom  the  whole  country  respects  ; 
you  slandered  my  wife,  whose  first  and  staunchest  friend  you 
ought  to  have  been  ; and  you  insinuated  to  me  suspicions 
which  might  very  easily,  had  I been  either  more  credulous 
or  more  hot-tempered,  have  ended  in  bloodshed  between  my 
cousin  and  myself,  or  at  the  best  in  a public  quarrel  which 
would  have  disgraced  us  both.  That  is  what  you  call  good- 
ness— sincerity — affection  ! God  deliver  me  from  them  and 
send  me  sinners  ; sinners  of  every  sin  under  Heaven,  but 
with  sympathy  in  them,  and  generosity  and  mercy  ! ” 

She  was  silent  for  a moment.  She  had  never  seen  him  so 
fully . roused,  so  reckless  in  denunciation  ; she  loved  him 
greatly,  and  she  felt  in  every  word  the  severance,  one  by  one, 
of  the  ties  of  consanguinity  and  habit  which  had  bound  them 
together. 

But  she  was  a woman  who  was  pitiless  in  pursuit  of  her 
purpose,  unchangeable  in  her  opinions  and  her  conduct, 
unrelenting  in  her  tyranny  and  curiosity  and  meddlesome 
inquisition  into  the  lives  and  thoughts  of  others. 

“ I pass  over  your  insults  and  your  ingratitude,”  she 
said,  with  difficulty  controlling  the  rage  she  felt.  “ I wish 
only  to  ask  you  one  question.  I have  come  from  England  to 
ask  it.  I heard  by  chance  that  you  wrere  in  Paris.  Is  it 
true  that  you  intend  to  effect  a reconciliation  with  your  wife  ? ” 

“ Who  told  you  that  I do  so  ? ” 

“ No  one  told  me.  But  I heard  its  possibility  discussed, 
vaguely,  in  society.” 

“Well?  What  then?” 

“ You  cannot  mean  it ! You  could  not  drag  your  name 
in  the  dust ! Your  severance  from  her  was  bad  enough  ; 
but  your  reconciliation  to  her  would  be  worse,  ten  million 
times  worse.  It  is  not  to  be  thought  of,  not  to  be  dreamed 
of,  for  one  instant ! You  owe  it-  to  your  whole  family  ! ” 

“ What  do  I owe  to  my  family  ? ” 

He  had  grown  quite  calm.  His  violence  had  spent  itself, 
but  she,  who  had  known  him  from  his  earliest  years,  knew 
that  this  tranquillity  had  more  real  menace  and  sterner 
meaning  in  it. 


390 


GUILDEBOr. 


But  she  had  never  quailed  before  the  fury  of  any  of  the 
men  related  to  her  whom  she  had  tortured,  fatigued,  and  in- 
jured for  their  good,  as  their  good  was  seen  by  her. 

“ You  owe  it  to  your  family,”  she  replied,  “to  your  family 
and  to  yourself,  not  to  take  again  into  your  life  before  the 
world  a woman  who  has  lived  as  your  wife  has  done  in  your 
absence.” 

“ How  has  she  lived  ? ” 

“ How  ? As  no  woman  in  her  senses  could  have  lived. 
Withdrawn  from  every  one  ; herself  a mark  for  the  most 
odious  suspicions ; receiving  no  visits  save  from  one  man 
whose  name  already  had  often  been  connected  with  hers. 
You  used  to  be  proud,  you  used  to  care  beyond  all  things  for 
your  name — what  will  the  whole  world  say  of  you  if,  after 
more  than  a year  and  a half  of  such  a life  as  that,  Lady 
Guilderoy  is  once  more  admitted  into  your  house  and  your 
heart  ? ” 

Guilderoy  looked  at  her,  and,  bold  woman  though  she  was, 
she  was  afraid  of  the  effects  of  her  words. 

He  smiled  slightly.  His  smile  was  very  bitter  and  very 
contemptuous. 

“ If  you  only  came  here  to  say  this,”  he  said,  “ it  was  a 
pity  you  did  not  remain  in  England.  I should  then  at  least 
have  been  able  to  forget  all  that  you  wrote  to  me  in  Italy. 
You  are  a virtuous  woman,  but  you  are  a cruel  woman.  If 
you  had  any  mercy  in  you,  you  would  have  been  stirred  to 
compassion  for  Gladys ; you  would  have  gone  to  her,  you 
would  have  counselled  her,  you  would  have  set  the  shield  of 
your  unblemished  position  between  the  world  and  her.  Even 
if  you  had  hated  her,  still  you  should  have  done  so  for 
my  sake.  Aubrey  alone  did  what  he  could.  I am  grateful 
to  him.  Whoever  hints  a wrord  against  him  is  my  enemy. 
The  mistake  made  by  Gladys  was  the  mistake  of  an  imagi- 
native, unwordly,  and  over-sensitive  nature  ; but  it  was  a noble 
mistake — one  which  one  but  an  ignoble  nature  could  possibly 
misjudge.  I am  blamable  in  much,  but  I am  not  utterly 
vile.  I offended  her,  and,  if  life  permits  it  to  me,  I will 
atone  to  her.  It  never  occurred  to  me  as  possible  that  the 
world  could  blame  her  for  my  fault.  Possibly  it  would  never 
have  dared  to  do  so  had  not  you  been  the  first  to  cast  a stone 
at  her.” 

“ Are  you  the  dupe  of  your  wife,  as  you  have  been  of 
others  ? ” 

“ I am  no  one’s  dupe,  except  my  own  sometimes.  An4 


GUILDEROY. 


391 


now  you  will  pardon  me  if  I leave  you.  The  house  of  course 
is  yours  to  stay  in  if  you  choose.  But  I am  about  to  leave 
for  England,  and  you  will  pardon  me  if  I say  that  I wish  to 
go  alone.  Short  as  the  journey  is,  it  would  he  too  long  for 
me  to  make  it  in  the  society  of  one  who  is  the  unkindest 
enemy  of  myself  and  of  those  who  are  dear  to  me.” 

“ What  ? Does  the  devotion  of  a lifetime  count  for  noth- 
ing ? Are  those  dear  to  you  whom  you  forsook,  and  by 
whom  you  have  been  betrayed  ? Do  you  utterly  forget  all  my 
affection,  all  my  forgiveness,  all  my  defence  of  your  errors  in 
the  world,  for  sake  of  a woman  whom  you  are  tired  of  one 
day  and  idolize  the  next,  only  because  she  no  longer  cares 
what  you  do  ? ” 

“ My  good  sister,”  said  Guilderoy,  with  something  of  his 
old  manner,  “ I told  3^ou  long  ago  that  you  were  equally  dis- 
contented with  me  whether  I took  the  paths  of  vice  or  the 
paths  of  virtue,  to  use  the  jargon  of  the  world’s  very  arbi- 
trary and  rather  senseless  classifications.  You  were  indig- 
nant when  I left  my  wife.  You  are  indignant  now  that  it  is 
possible  I may  return  to  her.  I do  not  see  that  in  either 
case  you  have  any  title  to  be  my  judge,  and  I regret  to  feel 
that  you  have  forfeited  the  power  to  be  my  friend.” 

With  that  he  left  her ; and  she,  mortified,  worsted,  and 
made  impotent  as  an  arbiter  of  fate,  broke  down  into  a fit 
of  womanlike  and  heartbroken  weeping. 

She  recalled  the  voice  of  John  Vernon  saying  in  the  sum- 
mer stillness  of  his  garden.  “Be  kind  to  her.”  She  knew 
that  she  had  been  more  than  not  kind ; that  she  had  been 
cruel,  that  she  had  deserted  her,  injured  her,  and  been  the 
first  to  lead  the  world  to  see  harm  and  disgrace  in  the  soli- 
tude of  that  simple  life  at  Christslea.  Eool  that  she  had 
been  to  let  her  prejudice  and  jealousy  warp  her  judgment  so 
utterly  ! Eool  that  she  had  been  not  to  have  had  sense  and 
penetration  enough  to  foresee  that  the  time  would  come  when, 
her  brother  would  resent  as  a dishonor  done  to  himself  all 
slur  and  suspicion  cast  through  her  upon  the  innocence  of 
his  wife  ! 

Her  pride  at  last  realized  that  she  had  no  influence  over 
those  she  strove  to  move,  no  wisdom  in  her  interference,  no 
place  in  the  hearts  of  those  she  loved ; she  saw  at  last  her 
own  soul  as  it  truly  was,  with  curiosity  in  the  guise  of  friend 
ship,  harshness  in  the  mask  of  justice,  meddlesome  and  vexar 
b*ous  authority  in  the  form  of  affection,  unconscious  jealousy 
*tfid  malignity  in  the  golden  robes  of  virtue. 


392 


GXIILDEROt. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

A whole  day  and  yet  another  sleepless  night  had  passed 
with  Gladys  in  that  wretchedness  of  uncertainty  in  which  the 
soul  is  like  a house  divided  against  itself.  All  that  was 
noblest  in  her  urged  her  to  do  what  Aubrey  had  begged  of 
her ; all  that  was  human,  weak,  passionate  and  selfish  refused 
to  do  it. 

She  understood  why  marriage,  which  is  so  burdensome  and 
so  unrecompensed  to  the  man,  is  to  the  woman  so  great  an 
emancipation  and  enrichment.  Yet  were  she  only  free  now! 
— only  a child  as  she  had  been  when  Guilderoy  had  found 
her  on  the  moors  ! And  she  remembered  bitterly  that,  even 
if  she  were  so,  the  world  would  only  see  in  her  feeling  for  Au- 
brey ambition  and  acquisitiveness,  as  it  had  seen  it  in  her 
marriage ; and  the  voice  of  her  father  seemed  to  rebuke  her, 
saying,  as  he  had  often  said,  in  the  words  of  Socrates  to  Crito, 
“ Is  it  worth  while  to  think  so  much  of  the  opinion  of  others  ?” 

No,  it  was  not  worth  while  ; all  the  natural  nobility  of  her 
nature  recognized  the  nobility  of  Aubrey’s  words  and  acts  ; 
but,  womanlike,  their  austerity,  commanding  her  admiration, 
left  her  heart  cold  ; womanlike,  she  would  have  fain  had  him 
think  less  of  honor,  more  of  her.  An  infinite  regret,  which 
she  knew  would  abide  with  her  so  long  as  ever  she  should 
have  life,  weighed  on  her  for  the  pain  which  she  had  brought 
on  him  through  her  unthinking  acceptance  of  his  devotion 
and  her  too  selfish  appeals  to  him.  And  yet  it  seemed  to  her 
that  after  all  he  loved  her  but  little  ! Women  can  never  ac- 
cept or  understand  the  farewell  of  Montrose.  It  only  hurts 
them. 

With  the  contradiction  of  human  wishes,  the  simple  secluded 
life  of  Christslea,  which  had  seemed  hardly  better  than  a liv- 
ing death,  grew  dear  to  her.  The  even  and  monotonous  time, 
the  empty  house,  the  homely  ways,  seemed  safe  and  peaceful. 
Beside  the  troubled  course  of  passions,  of  pleasures,  and  of 
pains,  which  make  up  the  life  of  the  world,  her  residence  in 
this  little  seaside  hamlet  appeared  serene  and  secr'*re  ; as  the 
haven  of  a religious  house  appeared  to  those  who,  after  the 
deceptions  of  love  and  the  temptations  of  power,  withdrew 
themselves  to  Port  Royal  of  La  Trappe.  Its  dreariness,  its 
vacancy,  the  despair  before  it  which  had  often  seized  her  iu 


OTTILDEROY. 


393 


its  long  moonless  winter  nights  when  the  silence  of  snow  was 
all  around,  and  in  the  gray  melancholy  summer  evenings 
when  the  hoot  of  the  owl  alone  answered  the  lapping  of  the 
waves — all  these  passed  away  from  her  mind ; she  only  re- 
membered that  here  she  had  known  that  freedom  from  fresh 
and  poignant  pangs  which  seemed  to  her  the  nearest  approach 
to  happiness  that  Fate  would  ever  give  to  her. 

She  shrank  from  all  which  return  to  her  life  with  her  hus- 
band must  mean  for  her.  She  was  wholly  honest ; and,  ac' 
cepting  what  he  offered,  she  knew  that  she  must  fulfil  all  her 
obligations  to  him.  Some  women  might  have  made  a feint 
of  forgiveness  only  to  acquire  the  means  to  wound,  to  irritate, 
to  chastise,  to  mortify  him  ; but  any  such  treachery  as  that 
was  impossible  to  the  daughter  of  John  Vernon.  Returning 
to  her  life  at  Ladysrood  must,  she  knew,  mean  for  her  the 
resumption  of  all  those  ties  from  which  she*  had  for  nearly 
two  years  looked  upon  herself  as  freed. 

She  could  do  nothing  meanly.  As  her  severance  from 
him  had  been  complete  and  uncompromising,  so  she  knew 
that  her  reunion  with  him  must  be  entire,  and  her  ac- 
ceptance of  him  faithful  in  the  spirit  as  well  as  in  the  letter. 
Only  a year  ago  it  would  have  made  her  so  happy  to  have 
given  that  which  he  sought  ! Though  she  had  scorned  the 
suggestion  of  reconciliation  with  her  lips,  she  had  often 
yearned  for  it  in  her  heart  ; but  now — now  it  was  too  late  to 
give  her  any  possible  joy  ; she  shrank  from  its  necessity 
with  both  her  body  and  her  mind. 

“ What  am  I to  do  ? What  shall  I choose  ? ’’  she  asked 
herself,  with  a passionate  anxiety  to  make  the  choice  which 
should  be  right  in  her  father’s  sight  and  Aubrey's.  The  one 
was  dead,  the  other  absent ; but  both  seemed  very  close  to 
her  through  all  these  hours,  both  seemed  at  once  her  coun- 
sellors and  her  judges. 

At  times  she  remembered  Guilderoy  as  he  had  been  in  the 
first  weeks  of  their  life  together,  and  then  a shudder  passed 
over  her,  thinking  that  all  those  ecstacies,  those  adorations, 
those  entreaties  lavished  on  her  then,  had  all  been  given  since 
to  others.  And  at  such  moments  the  quiet  chamber,  the  un- 
broken solitude  of  this  little  cottage  seemed  to  her  the 
“haven  under  the  hill,”  like  that  which  sheltered  the  storm- 
tossed  fisher-boats  of  Christslea  where  the  cliffs  curved  in- 
ward facing  the  setting  sun. 

She  passed  the  chief  portion  of  the  day  pacing  to  and  fro 
under  the  willows  and  yews  wheie  the  marble  column  said 


m 


GUILDEROT. 


of  him  whose  mortal  frame  lay  underneath  it,  shut  within 
the  earth,  that  death  comes  kindly  to  him  by  whom  death 
has  never  been  desired.  The  swallows  flew  in  and  out  of  the 
quiet  place,  building  their  nests  in  the  eaves  and  gables  of 
the  church.  The  soft  pale  sunbeams  fell  through  the  dark 
shadows  of  the  yew-trees  and  the  gray  plumes  of  the  willows. 
Now  and  then  some  cry  of  a fisherman  to  another  from  the 
shore  came  faintly  on  the  air  ; and  the  broad  white  wing  of 
a curlew  brushed  the  topmost  boughs  of  the  churchyard 
trees.  When  she  left  her  father’s  grave  it  was  again  even- 
ing ; calm  and  colorless  and  sad  as  English  evenings  are,  it 
seemed  like  the  reflection  of  her  own  soul.  Her  choice  was 
made. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  when  she 
entered  the  woods  of  Ladysrood. 

They  were  in  all  the  delicate  and  lovely  greenery  of  their 
first  foliage.  The  braken  and  ferns  were  waving  breast 
high,  and  the  birds  were  singing  in  the  brushwood  of  the 
undergrowth  and  in  the  branches  of  elm,  oak,  and  beach. 
The  ground  was  blue  in  many  a nook  with  pimpernel  and 
wild  hyacinth.  Across  the  grassy  drives  ever  and  again  a 
deer  bounded  or  a hare  scudded.  He  had  never  cared  {or 
sport  as  other  men  care,  and  his  woods  and  forests  were  for 
the  most  part  the  peaceful  haunts  of  unmolested  woodland 
creatures.  She  thought  dreamily  of  the  old  story  of  Gri- 
seldis ; had  Griseldis,  when  her  triumph  came,  lost  the  love 
out  of  her  heart  which  had  borne  her  through  all  her  trials  ? 
Had  she,  when  bidden  to  return  to  her  kingdom,  lost  all 
wish  for  it,  and  only  felt  the  heaviness  of  the  burden  she 
was  summoned  to  take  up — the  weight  and  imprisonment  of 
the  reunion  ? 

Likely  enough ; likely  enough  that  Griseldis  had  been  a 
happier  women  in  her  misery,  when  hope  and  love  had  still 
been  with  her,  than  in  her  return  to  her  palace  and  her  pomp. 

She  passed  through  all  the  sunshine  and  stillness  and 
fragrance  of  the  dewy  giades,  and  entered  the  great  gardens 
of  the  south-west  where  the  rose-walk  was  where  her  father 
bade  her  have  patience,  and  Aubrey  had  said  the  same  words 
to  her — words  which  had  seemed  to  her  then  so  cold,  so  com* 
monplace,  so  barren. 

She  saw  the  stately  evergreen  gardens,  the  long  aisles  of 
the  berceaux , the  wide  stone  flights  of  the  terrace  steps,  and 
the  western  front  of  the  house — its  buttresses  and  casements 
hung  and  garlanded  with  pink  and  golden  banksia  in  full 


GUILDEnor. 


$98 


flower — and  for  a little  while  she  could  not  see  them  for  the 
tears  which  blinded  her  eyes.  There  her  father  had  stood 
with  her  in  the  summer  night  and  had  said  to  her  : — 

“It  lies  with  you  to  retain  the  angels  which  stand  about 
the  throne  of  life — honor,  unselfishness,  and  sympathy.” 

The  men  at  work  as  she  passed  and  the  two  ser- 
vants who  were  idling  on  the  terrace  recognized  her,  and 
saluted  her  humbly,  and  were  startled  and  afraid  to  see  her 
there. 

She  bade  them  send  the  housekeeper  to  her. 

“My  lord  returns  to-morrow.  Prepare  everything,”  she 
said  briefly. 

The  old  woman  kissed  her  hand  and  murmured  trembling, 
“ The  Lord  be  thanked  ! ” 

Gladys  looked  at  her  with  a strange  look.  “ Will  it  be 
well  or  ill  ? ” she  thought,  and  said  no  more ; but  entered 
the  house  where  she  was  mistress,  and  uncovered  her  head 
and  sat  down  by  one  of  the  great  windows,  and  gazed  out  at 
the  gardens  smiling  in  the  western  sun.  An  infinite  peace 
seemed  to  lie  like  a benediction  on  the  great  house  in  its 
silence  and  fragrance  and  majesty.  But  there  was  no  peace 
in  her  heart. 

“ My  father  will  be  content,  if  he  knows,”  she  thought. 

She  could  not  think  of  his  soul  as  dead,  as  ignorant  or  as 
careless  of  her  fate. 

She  rose  after  awhile  and  went  up  the  staircase  to  her  own 
apartments,  Kenneth  and  the  other  dogs  following  her  with 
soft  noiseless  tread  ; they  knew  the  place  again,  but  the 
change  to  it  troubled  them.  She  let  the  women  take  off  her 
the  rough  serge  gown  she  wore,  symbol  of  the  freedom  and 
the  solitude  she  relinquished,  and  clothe  her  in  one  of  the 
many  gowns  which  she  had  left  there  ; a gown  of  pale  gray 
velvet,  embroidered  with  silver  threads,  with  old  laces  at  the 
throat  and  arms.  As  she  looked  at  the  worn  folds  of  the 
serge  skirts,  with  all  its  stains  of  sea-sand  and  of  wet  grasses, 
she  sighed  as  Griseldis  might,  despite  all,  when  she  put  off 
her  peasant’s  kirtle  for  the  regal  robe  once  more. 

With  the  old  worn  gown  she  put  away  from  her  forever 
liberty  of  the  affections,  liberty  of  the  actions,  liberty  even 
of  the  thoughts  ; for  she  was  very  loyal — giving  herself  once 
more  she  gave  her  undivided  allegiance. 

She  clasped  a necklace  about  her  throat  — a necklace 
of  old  Venetian  gold- work  which  he  had  given  her  in  the 
early  days  of  their  stay  in  Venice,  and  turned  from  the  mii> 


396 


GUILDEEOY. 


ror,  feeling  as  though  a score  of  years  had  gone  since  she 
had  last  stood  before  it  there.  Then  she  descended  the  stairs, 
where  the  afternoon  sun  still  streamed  through  the  painted 
windows  across  the  broad  steps  and  the  oaken  balustrade. 

She  went  slowly,  feeling  as  though  she  dragged  a dead 
body  with  her,  the  amber  glow  of  the  late  afternoon  shining 
on  the  silvery  softness  of  the  velvet  and  the  gold  chainwork 
of  the  necklace  as  she  moved.  The  house  was  flooded  with 
that  rich  light — that  evening  splendor — that  fragrance  from 
blossoming  gardens  and  from  dewy  woodlands ; it  seemed 
to  make  a festival  with  its  beauty  and  its  odors  and  its  color 
for  her  as  she  moved. 

But  her  face  was  white,  her  step  was  reluctant,  her  heart 
sick.  For  she  knew  that  he  was  on  his  way  thither,  and 
would  soon  rejoin  her.  Even  her  return  to  Ladysrood  would 
be  attributed  by  the  world  to  coarse  and  selfish  reasons  ; and 
the  remembrance  of  the  imputation  of  low  motives  which  the 
world  is  sure  to  cast  on  high  emotions  must  ever  be  to  the 
nature  which  is  above  the  herd  a loathsome  and  gailing  re- 
membrance. 

She  looked  at  a portrait  by  Watts  of  Aubrey  which  hung 
in  the  picture-gallery.  It  seemed  to  gaze  at  her  with  eyes 
which  had  life  in  them,  and  its  lips  seemed  to  utter  an 
eternal  farewell.  They  would  meet  as  friends  and  relatives  ; 
they  would  meet  perforce  and  continually,  but  the  old  sweet 
intimacy  was  over  for  ever. 

It  left  an  immense  loss,  an  immense  void,  in  her  life, 
which  she  had  no  belief  that  the  future  could  ever  fill. 

She  wandered  through  the  long  succession  of  rooms  and 
galleries,  and  halls  and  corridors  ; the  places  were  all  so 
familiar,  yet  so  strange  to  her.  Like  the  dogs,  she  was 
troubled  by  a divided  sense  of  exile  and  of  return ; after  the 
little  lowly  chambers  and  lonely  shores  of  Christslea,  Ladys- 
rood seemed  a palace  for  a queen. 

Her  husband  had  given  it  all  to  her  ; he  had  found  her 
poor  and  obscure  and  had  enriched  her  with  all  he  possessed. 
She  had  never  cared  for  these  things  indeed,  in  any  vulgar 
or  avaricious  sense,  but  absence  from  them  had  taught  her 
to  measure  their  value  in  the  eyes  of  others,  and  to  under- 
stand why  her  father,  least  worldly  of  all  men,  had  said  to 
her  that  the  greatness  of  Gruilderoy?s  gifts  demanded  from 
her  gratitude  and  fealty. 

She  entered  the  drawing-rooms  of  the  western  wing;  where 


GUILDEROY.  397 

the  last  glow  of  the  sunset  was  lighting  up  with  crimson  re- 
flections all  the  beauty  and  luxury  of  the  apartments. 

She  walked  to  and  fro  them  in  their  solitude,  bidding  the 
servants  leave  the  windows  open  to  the  evening  air,  which 
came  in  cool  and  damp  and  full  of  the  fragrance  of  spring 
flowers  and  spring  woodlands. 

It  was  the  last  breath  of  the  life  which  she  had  given  up 
and  left  for  ever. 

Henceforward  she  would  live  in  the  world — for  the  world 
> — of  the  world  ; Guilderoy,  she  knew,  would  never  lead  any 
other  existence.  The  burden  of  its  artificiality,  the  cruelty 
of  its  crowds,  the  sameness  of  its  pleasures,  seemed  to  weigh 
on  her  already  with  that  monotony  and  that  irritation  which 
she  had  always  found  in  them. 

The  hours  passed  on ; the  day  altered  into  night ; the 
servants  came  and  lighted  all  the  waxlights  in  the  sconces  and 
chandeliers  of  the  suite  of  rooms.  She  stood  by  one  of  the 
©till  open  windows,  looking  out  at  the  shadows  of  the  west 
garden,  listening  to  the  peaceful  splashing  of  the  fountains 
falling  in  the  fishponds  under  the  trees.  ' 

She  could  hear  her  own  heart  beat  in  the  stillness.  She 
knew  that  he  had  returned,  and  must  soon  come  to  her. 

Tenderness  and  bitterness  strove  together  in  her  soul ; she 
remembered  her  father’s  words  spoken  in  that  chamber,  and 
she  acknowledged  their  nobility  and  beauty  ; but  she  also  re- 
membered the  words  with  which  Guilderoy  had  there  de- 
clared to  her  that  he  had  never  loved  her  and  loved  another 
woman. 

“ Why  drag  the  chain  between  us  when  it  is  pain  to 
both  ? ” she  thought ; and  her  memory  went  to  Aubrey. 

The  evening  became  night ; the  curfew-bell,  which  was 
still  rung  at  Ladysrood,  tolled  from  the  clock-tower,  the  air 
grew  colder  and  had  the  sweeth  breath  of  a million  of  prim- 
roses and  hyacinths  to  it. 

In  the  stillness  and  sweetness  of  it  Guilderoy  stood  before 
her.  He  looked  older,  paler,  more  weary  than  he  had  done 
when  he  had  left  her  there  eighteen  months  before.  He  had 
suffered  both  in  his  passions  and  in  his  pride  ; he  had  judged 
himself,  and  the  world  had  judged  him, and  the  woman  he  loved 
had  judged  him,  and  he  and  they  had  alike  condemned  him. 
Would  this  other  woman,  whom  he  did  not  love,  but  in  whose 
hands  the  conventional  honor  of  his  name  was  placed  by  the 
conventional  laws  of  the  world,  condemn  him  also?  She  looked 
at  him  and  made  no  gesture  or  movement  which  could  assist 


395 


GUILDEROY. 


him ; her  face  was  cold,  and  her  eyes  were  passionless. 

He  crossed  the  room  and  kissed  her  hand  with  his  accus- 
tomed grace  and  with  a ceremonious  and  serious  courtesy. 

His  lips  were  as  cold  as  the  hand  which  they  touched. 

“ I thank  you,”  he  said,  simply.  The  words  cost  him 
much  to  utter ; he  felt  the  unresponding  and  fixed  gaze  <of 
her  eyes  upon  him,  and  the  warmer  impulses,  the  more  ten- 
der repentance,  with  which  he  had  entered  her  presence  froze 
under  them. 

“You  have  nothing  to  thank  me  for,”  she  said  coldly. 
“You  have  asked  me  to  return  to  you  for  the  world’s  sake, 
and  for  the  world’s  sake  I have  accepted.” 

“ Only  for  that  ?”  he  said,  with  hesitation,  perplexed  and 
troubled. 

“ For  that,  and  for  my  promise  to  my  father.  I said  that 
I would  never  bring  evil  repute  upon  his  name  and  yours, 
and  I will  not.” 

“ But  have  you  no  other  feeling  ? None  for  me  ? ” The 
words  escaped  him  almost  unconsciously,  and  there  was  an  ac- 
cent of  emotion,  almost  of  entreaty  in  them. 

“ No  ; none  now.” 

The  answer  was  sad  and  immutable  as  death. 

His  face  flushed  as  he  heard  it. 

“ Had  you  ever  any  ? ” he  asked  her. 

“ Oh,  yes  ; ” she  sighed  as  she  spoke,  and  her  eyes  softened ; 
and  darkened  with  many  memories.  “ I loved  you  greatly  ; 
I have  suffered  greatly  ; but  1 do  not  love  you  now,  nor  have 
you  power  to  pain  me.  I was  a child  when  I loved  you;  I 
am  a woman,  now.  I will  be  honest  with  you.  I do  not  care 
— I shall  never  care ; but  I will  be  to  you  what  you  wish ; 
and  the  world — the  world  of  which  you  think  so  much  ! — 
shall  never  know  that  it  is  so,  and  your  honor  shall  be  as 
dear  to  me  as  though  you  were  dear.” 

He  heard  her  witli  profound  humiliation,  with  unspeakable 
pain.  He  had  believed  her  cold,  but  he  had  thought  that,  so 
far  as  she  had  loved  at  all,  her  heart  had  been  always  with 
him.  He  had  come  to  her  in  repentance,  in  wistful  desire 
for  peace,  in  a vague  hope  of  he  knew  not  what  new  kind  of 
happiness ; and  he  found  the  chambers  of  her  soul  closed  to 
him,  and  occupied  possibly  by  another. 

He  had  nerved  himself  to  bend  to  what  was  am  act  of 
humiliation  and  supplication;  and,  unknown  to  himself,  he 
had  looked  in  return  for  the  tenderness  and  sweetness  of  rec* 
onciliation,  even  of  welcome. 


GUILDEROY.  399 

(t  I know/’  he  murmured  wearily,  “ that  my  offences  against 
you  have  been  many  and  great.” 

“ It  is  not  that.  I have  learned  to  know  that  they  were 
natural  enough.  I was  nothing  to  you ; others  were  much. 
In  the  beginning  I did  not  understand  you  ; I did  not  know 
anything  of  men’s  natures  or  of  their  passions.  I must  have 
fatigued  you,  been  insufficient  for  you;  that  I can  under- 
stand. My  father  always  told  me  I was  to  blame  that  I had 
hot  indulgence.” 

“ Your  father  was  merciful  as  a god,  always  and  to  all.  He 
would  tell  you  to  be  indulgent  now.” 

“ Yes  ; I know  that  he  would.*  I know  that  he  would  con- 
demn me  more  than  he  would  you.” 

He  gazed  at  her  in  silence  ; she  was  still  so  young  that  even 
suffering  had  had  no  power  to  mar  her  great  personal  beauty ; 
her  face  was  colorless  and  calm,  her  eyes  full  of  unspeakable 
sadness,  her  attitude  unconsciously  one  of  dignity  and  rebuke. 
Vaguely  he  felt  that  it  was  possible  that  he  should  some  day 
love  this  woman  hopelessly  since  she  no  more  loved  him. 

“ If  you  have  ceased  to  care  for  me,”  he  said  almost  inaud- 
ibly,  “ I cannot  complain ; I have  only  caused  you  suffering 
and  mortification.  I have  told  you  that  I will  endeavor  to 
atone  in  the  future  j but  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
believe  me.” 

“ I believe  that  you  mean  it  now.” 

“But  you  have  no  faith  in  my  constancy  of  purpose  ? Why 
should  you  have  any  ? Yet  I am  sincere.  Her  eyes  rested 
on  him  musingly,  and  softened  as  they  gazed. 

“ I do  believe  you,  but  I cannot  give  you  the  welcome 
you  wished,”  she  said  wearily.  “ I cannot — I cannot  lie.  If 
you  had  come  back  to  me  a year  ago  I should  have  rejoiced  ; 
I loved  you  then — ah  ! why  can  I not  now  ? Where  is  it  all 
gone  ? Why  did  you  leave  me  alone  ?” 

“ You  were  not  alone  ! You  had  Aubrey  ! And  what  you 
deny  to  me  you  give  to  him  ! ” 

She  shrank  from  the  name  as  if  he  had  stabbed  her  with  it. 

“ That  is  ungenerous,”  she  murmured.  “ He  has  been 
loyalty  itself  to  you ; only  a day  ago  he  pleaded  for  you  with 
all  his  might  and  blamed  me  ; neither  my  life  nor  yours  is 
worth  one  hour  of  his  ! ” 

Violent  words  rose  to  Guilderoy’s  lips,  but  he  repressed 
them  with  great  effort;  the  justice  and  the  generosity  which 
were  in  his  nature  beneath  all  the  egotism  of  long  self-indul- 
gence conquered  the  passion  of  jealousy  and  of  offence  which 


400 


GUILDEROY. 


stirred  his  life  to  its  very  centre.  After  all,  what  right  had 
he  to  blame  or  to  judge  ? What  title  had  he  left-  to  speak  of 
his  right  to  her  affections  ? ” 

“ The  fault  of  all  is  mine/’  he  said  with  great  emotion. 
“ I left  you  in  a position  of  the  greatest  peril : if  you  had 
injured  me  in  any  way  I should  but  have  had  what  I merited. 
Forgive  me,  dear.  I led  you  into  the  captivity  of  marriage 
when  you  were  too  young  to  know  what  you  did  with  your 
life ; and  I was  too  careless  and  too  selfish  to  he  your  guard- 
ian in  it.  It  is  the  cruellest  folly  of  all  on  earth — that  bind- 
ing of  two  lives  together  like  two  corpses  from  which  the 
life  has  fled.  We  are  not  the  first  victims  to  it  by  many 
tens  of  thousands,  and  in  all  ages  every  greater  and  higher 
soul  has  poured  forth  its  eternal  protest  against  it.  If  you 
love  me  no  more,  how  dare  I blame  you  ? — I,  who  so  soon 
ceased  to  love  you  ? My  poor  child,  believe  me  at  least  in 
this — from  my  heart  I beseech  you  to  pardon  me  the  mad 
caprice  in  which  I bound  your  fate  to  mine.  I thought  that 
you  would  be  content,  like  so  many  women,  with  all  the  ma- 
terial pleasures  of  the  world,  of  rank  and  of  wealth ; I forgot 
that  you  were  your  father’s  daughter,  and  that  those  could 
have  no  power  to  console  you  when  your  heart  was  seared 
and  your  pride  was  wounded.  Forgive  me,  dear ! ” 

He  knelt  at  her  feet  as  he  spoke,  and  he  kissed  the  hem  of 
her  skirts.  She  passed  her  hand  over  his  hair  with  the  same 
gesture,  half  of  tenderness,  half  of  pity,  which  Beatrice  Soria 
had  used. 

A sigh  which  came  from  her  soul’s  depths  breathed  over 
him  where  he  knelt. 

“I  forgive  you,  I hope,  and  you  must  forgive  me,”  she 
said  gently.  “Do  not  ask  more  of  me  yet.” 

“ I will  ask  you  nothing,”  he  answered,  touched  to  the 
heart.  “For  I have  long  ceased  to  deserve  anything.” 

A few  months  later  the  country  learned  that  Lord  Aubrey, 
his  party  having  returned  to  power,  had  accepted  a distant 
and  arduous  Vice-royalty,  and,  in  its  coarse  foolishness,  it 
envied  him  his  greatness. 


[the  end.] 


mi 


